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appletons’ 
Uown an& Country 
OLtbrarg 

No. 17 6. A 


OUT OF DUE SEASON 



OUT OF DUE SEASON 


A MEZZOTINT 


BY 

ADELINE SERGEANT 


M 


AUTHOR OF 

THE MISTRESS OF QUEST, THE STORY OF A PENITENT SOUL, ETC. 


. . . cc Spirits are not finely touched 
But to fine issues ” . . . 



NEW YORK 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

1895 



Copyright, 1895 , 

By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


I. 

“ Little, unremembered acts ” 

It- was a Saturday afternoon. In the sleepy 
little town of Casterby there was not much done on 
a Saturday afternoon in June. Many of the shops 
in the High Street and the Market Place closed at 
two. There was no business down at the yards and 
the wharves on the river-side. The great arms of 
the windmills had sunk into their Sabbath quietude. 
The streets were deserted ; but from the open doors 
of every public-house came a buzz of tongues, a 
clang of pewter-pots, a whiff of strong tobacco, 
which showed that a fairly large number of the 
male inhabitants of Casterby had betaken them- 
selves to their favourite haunts and their favourite 
occupation. 

The younger men were out on the river, or play- 


2 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


ing cricket in a flat green meadow outside the town, 
or loafing in groups at comers of the streets, with 
short pipes in their mouths. In one way or an- 
other they were amusing themselves. Their sisters 
and sweethearts were for the most part at home, 
lying on their beds in luxurious idleness, or putting 
the last touches to some bit of finery for the even- 
ing’s wear. For after tea, by immemorial custom, 
the young men and maidens of Casterby went for a 
walk, generally in couples, to breathe the soft airs 
of hayfield, meadow, or river-bank, and to watch 
the moon rise and the stars come out over the level 
pasture-lands and the low-lying woods of Casterby 
Park. 

Here and there, a youth sulked over his hard 
fate in having to keep watch and ward at his 
father’s counter until six o’clock ; or a conscientious 
girl submitted to the hand of destiny which had 
given her the charge of children or of a sick rela- 
tion who could not be neglected ; but for the most 
part, it was the tradition of Casterby that young 
people should have no sense of duty or obligation 
on a Saturday afternoon — that being the time ap- 
pointed from all eternity for the relaxation of 


OUT OF DUE season: 


3 


the body and the initiation of sexual relation- 
ships. 

The little red town seemed to bask in the sun, 
lying in picturesque stillness on the banks of a 
placidly-flowing river, with wide flat meadows on 
either side, where rows of pollarded willows showed 
the dykes that divided the fields, and windmills 
stood up as the only landmarks in that waste of 
green against the cloudless sky. The fields melted 
into a blue haze of distance on the horizon, for 
there was not a hill within sight. The white road 
which entered one side of the town, crossed the 
bridge and ran through the Market Place — losing 
itself for a time in a stretch of cobble-stones, and 
emerging on the other side between green hedges 
on its way into the vast unknown — this white and 
dusty road had no fatiguing ups and downs for 
many a long mile, but meandered flatly onward in 
uniform monotony. It might have been taken 
as a figure of many a life in the little town of 
Casterby — a life where there was no obstacle 
and much uniformity, but where the objects of 
interest were few and far between, and the out- 
look on either side the road very much restricted. 


4 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


But there were also by-ways of a more alluring 
kind. 

It was in the families of middle-class tradesfolk 
and small professional men that this monotony was 
mostly to he found. The rich lawyer and the pop- 
ular doctor, liying outside the town, had resources 
and diversions which the shop-people did not dream 
of. The parson had his church and his charities. 
The Squire — represented by Mr. Lisle of the Court 
— was often in London or in “ foreign parts,” and, 
being a Homan Catholic, held himself a little apart 
from the other magnates of the county and the in- 
stitutions of the town. In these men’s houses, 
dimly represented to the Casterby people by a stack 
of chimneys seen between clumps of stately trees, 
or a gar den- wall, draped with Virginian creeper, 
from behind which came sounds of laughter and 
song and the echo of strange outlandish games, it 
seemed almost to the homely folk outside as if an 
alien people dwelt. Doubtless, to the Lisle girls 
and their neighbours, the young Collingwoods of 
Arcke, shut in by the great park gates, and 
scarcely conscious of anything unbeautiful in 
the world, the lives of people who lived behind 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


5 


shops and counting-houses were just as incon- 
ceivable. 

And thero was also another class in Casterby 
where life was anything but monotonous. Small 
as the town was, it had its low-lying tangled slums, 
where a crowd of labourers, mostly Irish and Ho- 
man Catholics, herded with their wives and chil- 
dren in squalid little red-brick houses, and passed 
their time in an alternation of toil at the brickfields 
and drunken revelry at the public-house. 

The fact that Mr. Lisle was a Roman Catholic, 
and that there was a neat little Romanist chapel in 
Casterby, helped to attract this class of labourers 
to the place ; and apart from them there was also a 
contingent of ordinary drunken Englishmen, who 
were even more difficult to manage than the Irish 
labourers. Far removed from the stolid respecta- 
bility of the trading folk, further still from the 
careful refinements of the Court, there flourished in 
the back-streets of Casterby as much vice and mis- 
ery, disease and dirt, as could well be found in a 
town that did not number quite three thousand in- 
habitants upon the census-roll. 

The beams of the warm June sun, shining 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


through the dusty panes of a carpenter’s workshop, 
struck full on the face and figure of Gideon Blake, 
as, with heavily frowning brow, he handled plane 
and saw as though his life depended on the amount of 
labour he could accomplish, that sleepy Saturday aft- 
ernoon. Not that he worked with any appearance 
of ardour. It was simply that he did not raise his 
eyes or take his attention from his occupation for a 
moment ; he toiled with a certain grimness and per- 
tinacity of purpose not often seen in a lad of his 
age. For he was not more than twenty years old, 
although at first sight he seemed older. His height 
and his breadth of chest and shoulders were re- 
markable; his muscles and sinews were of iron; 
one would have' said (but it would not have been 
true) that his nerves were of steel. His forehead 
was broad, and well developed above the deep-set 
dark eyes ; his jaw a little too massive for the line 
of beauty. His mouth possessed some curiously 
sensitive curves, which struck one as out of place in 
that strong face ; but it was not a good mouth for 
all that. It was sullen in repose, with a droop at 
the corners which betokened discontent. For the 
rest, his face was well featured, and when he raised 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


7 


himself from his stooping posture it could be seen 
that his somewhat gaunt frame had in it the mak- 
ings of a giant. In stooping, the thing most no- 
ticeable about him was the great arch of his head, 
where a phrenologist would have said that the 
qualities of veneration and benevolence predomi- 
nated. Those who knew Gideon Blake would, 
however, have laughed this verdict to scorn. He 
did not bear an amiable character in Casterby. 

At last a shadow fell between him and the sun. 
He took no notice of it for some time; then he 
raised himself, shook the mass of heavy black hair 
out of his eyes, and looked threateningly at the in- 
truder, who was a spare, middle-sized man with 
scant gray hair and whiskers, a face mottled by 
long exposure to wind and weather, a clear, shrewd, 
gray-blue eye, and a peculiarly long upper-lip. 
His waistcoat was generally remarked on by 
strangers, as it was of a stout serviceable silk, with 
a pattern of red and blue, now much confused in 
colouring by the lapse of time and the stains of 
beer and tobacco ; but it was an article of attire 
that Obed Pilcher was proud of. 

“ A bit owd-fashioned,” he had been heard to 


8 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


say, as he looked down at it complacently, “but 
noan the wuss for that. It’s alius better to get a 
good stooff at beginning, an’ stick to ’t. Owd 
Squoire gi’e me this, a’ did, an’ it’ll last ma toime.” 

It had, in fact, once been a handsome garment 
of flowered silk, worn by the old Squire himself, in 
days when stifl flowered waistcoats were fashion- 
able, and to Obed’s eyes it was as good as ever. 
His trousers were of ordinary gray, usually turned 
up at the ankles (on week-days) to show an inch of 
blue stocking, but his coat was always of a rusty 
black. On Sundays he blossomed forth in a com- 
plete suit of sables, these being usually the Yicar’s 
gift ; for Obed Pilcher was parish clerk and verger, 
or “pew-opener,” as he called it, at the parish 
church. He magnified his office ; on the whole, he 
considered himself more important in Casterby 
church than any other functionary. Yicars might 
change and curates come and go, but the parish 
clerk remained in his glory until the day of death. 

Mr. Pilcher was the brother of Gideon Blake’s 
mother, who had died at his birth. It was perhaps 
on account of her early death that he had an espe- 
cial, although somewhat sneaking, affection for his 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


9 


nephew. Not that he showed it in words, scarcely 
in deeds ; hut it was noticed that whenever Gideon 
was in trouble or disgrace, Obed Pilcher made a 
point of seeking him out and giving him his society, 
often for two or three hours at a stretch, without 
offering a reason and without trying to converse. 
Gideon betrayed no pleasure at these visits, hut 
also little or no impatience. It might have been 
conjectured that he was not aware of their signifi- 
cance ; but Gideon Blake often saw more than he 
chose to show, and he by no means wore his heart 
upon his sleeve. 

On this occasion he eyed his visitor angrily, and 
said : 

“ Well?” 

Obed nodded in reply. 

“ Good-day t’ ye, Gideon. Main hot weather, 
bain’t it ? ” 

Gideon seemed to think it not worth while to 
respond. He crossed his brown arms over his 
broad breast, and leaned back against the wall, 
turning his handsome, sullen face a little to one 
side. Obed moved restlessly from one foot to an- 
other, then felt in his pocket for his snuff-box, and 


10 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


deliberately took a pinch of snuff between his finger 
and thumb. 

“Emmy’s at hoame,” he said, looking at the 
snufi-box. “At hoame, doin’ nowt. Ah saw 
Emmy as ah coom by.” 

No answer. But a dull red colour crept slowly 
into Gideon’s face, and a mute anger showed itself 
in his dark eyes. 

“ Emmy’s well enough. She bain’t a bad lass, 
Emmy. She doan’t mean nowt. But she’s stunt. 
All the Enderbys is stunt. Dunnot think the wuss 
of her for that.” 

“ I don’t,” said Gideon sharply. 

His uncle took the long-suspended pinch of 
snuff, and sneezed two or three times with porten- 
tous solemnity, as if he wished to give his nephew 
time to consider his words. But Gideon said no 
more. 

“Eh, well. It’s a rare noight for t’ watter. 
Thee be goin’ along o’ Mortlock’s party, ah 
reckon ? ” 

“What business is it o’ yours?” said Gideon, 
moving from the wall and looking round for his 
coat. “ I’m going nowhere to-night.” 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


11 


“ She's not goin’ in Mortlock’s boat ? ” 

“Not sbe. No party for her. She’s got a 
chap of her own, and a boat too, all to themselves.” 

And Gideon flung himself angrily into his 
jacket. 

“Ay, ay,” said Obed slowly. “Ah thowt as 
mooch. Young Chiltern, I lay, from Hull. The 
lasses is all agate after him.” 

Gideon muttered a savage curse on young Chil- 
tern, which Mr. Pilcher, as the parish clerk, af- 
fected not to hear. 

“Dinna fash thasen’, Gideon. Th’ lass is all 
right. She’ll not tak’ oop wi’ trash like Chiltern, 
for all his goold chaains an’ rings. She knaws a 
mon when she sees un, Emmy does.” 

Gideon was resolved against being comforted, 
but, in spite of himself,. his face cleared a little. 

“ She may take Chiltern, for all I care,” he said 
obstinately; “but if she takes him, she don’t get 
me too — that’s all.” 

i 

To nobody else in Casterby would he have said 
as much. 

Obed Pilcher shook his head. 

“ Emmy’s a foine strapping lass,” he said saga- 


12 


OUT OF DUE SEAS^W 


ciously. “An’ a fine strapping lass mnn tak’ her 
bit o’ foon. It’s foon, lad, foon — nowt else.” 

“She’ll have to choose between her fun — and 
me,” said Gideon. 

Then he stepped out of the shed, and stood for 
a moment in the blaze of the afternoon sun, his 
hands in his pockets, his angry eyes fixed on the 
ground. 

“ Come for a turn wi’ me,” said Obed persua- 
sively. 

“Well, maybe I will.” But he looked irreso- 
lute, and did not walk very quickly towards the 
gate. 

The Blakes’ house, a square red-brick block two 
stories high, with stiff white windows and prim 
painted doors, stood just outside the wood-yard. 
It fronted the road, with a small garden before 
it, and a flagged walk from the front-door to the 
gate ; and the long narrow back-garden ran past 
the yard, divided from it only by a low privet 
hedge. A white gate, of considerable width and 
height, opened on the road from the wood-yard ; 
but when Gideon Blake’s father and his family 
came to and from the house to the yard, they 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


13 


generally walked through a gap in the privet hedge, 
without troubling themselves about gates. Gideon 
was, however, making for the highroad, when a 
girl about twelve ran out at the back-door and stood 
on the garden side of the hedge, shaking her short 
skirts and calling to him : 

“ Gid ! Gid ! Tea’s ready. You’re to bring 
Uncle Obed in to tea.” 

Gideon looked at his uncle, and turned passively 
towards the house. Uncle Obed nodded and spoke 
to the child who was dancing on the gravelled path 
as if she did not know how to keep her feet still. 

“ I’m going on Mortlock’s boat,” she screamed 
out, as they approached. “ Dad says I may. We 
shan’t get home till midnight. All the Shipton 
girls are going, too.” 

“ Mortlock’s boat ” was a pleasure-barge, often 
hired on a Saturday evening by some dozen or 
twenty young people of Casterby for an excursion 
down the river. Staid and sober-going folk had 
their objections to these Saturday parties, for they 
were not without a rowdy element, although sup- 
posed to be conducted on respectable lines. There 

was usually a good deal of chorus-singing, and a 
2 


14 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


great supply of beer ; the young men sat with their 
arms round the waists of the girls of their choice, 
and there was more kissing than would have been 
deemed decorous in conventional circles. 

Gideon took no notice of his stepsister’s an- 
nouncement, at which Uncle Obed wagged his head 
solemnly. 

“ A lile lass like you,” he said, “ mout be better 
in her bed, ready for Sunday.” 

Carry Blake laughed scornfully, and pirouetted 
on one foot towards the house. 

“ I’m going to enjoy myself. I’m not always in 
the sulks, like Gideon,” she called over her shoulder 
in reply. 

She looked as if she might some day develop 
into a pretty girl, for she had long fair hair, eyes of 
speedwell blue, and a red-and-white complexion ; 
but her features were curiously thin and sharp, and 
the meagre-lipped, wide mouth showed two rows of 
large white teeth which seemed out of proportion 
to her size. She was the elder child of Joseph 
Blake's second wife. 

Gideon and Obed followed her through the 
back-door and into the little sitting-room where 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


15 


the tea-table was laid. For Mrs. Blake held her- 
self high above the vulgarity of sitting in the 
kitchen, as Joe Blake had always done before she 
married him. 

“ Good enough to smoke in — good enough for 
you and your Pilchers ! ” she had often exclaimed, 
with an acidulated emphasis upon the maiden name 
of Gideon’s mother ; “ but my father had one of the 
first drapery establishments in Gainsborough, and 
we had never anything to do with common labour- 
ers ” 

Which was an unkind skit at Gideon’s mother, 
whose father had been a small tenant-farmer who 
had come down in the world through inability to 
pay his rent. 

Mrs. Blake prided herself on her “ genteel ” ap- 
pearance, as well as her distinguished parentage. 
She was a tall, spare woman, in whom one saw her 
daughter’s face grown old. There were the same 
sharp features, accentuated by age ; the same bine 
eyes, grown paler and with reddened lids ; the same 
almost lipless mouth, and big teeth which were no 
longer white, but yellow, tusk-like, and ferocious. 
Not that Mrs. Blake gave one the impression of 


16 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


ferocity ; but that she was possessed of some 
genuine spitefulness there could be but little doubt. 
She was always civil to Obed Pilcher in his presence, 
but she had as little love for him as for Gideon, or 
for the dead woman in whose place she sat. 

She was dressed rather smartly, in a green gown, 
with a wide and very unbecoming fichu of real lace 
round her neck. She always wore smarter and 
more expensive things than were quite suitable to 
her position, because she got them at wholesale 
prices from her father’s shop. Carry also was over- 
dressed, and many people wondered how “ poor Joe 
Blake ” could afford such extravagance, and why he 
did not put a stop to it. As if poor Joe Blake 
could ever have put a stop to anything that his 
wife desired ! 

He was sitting at the tea-table when his brother- 
in-law came in, and turned to greet him with hearty 
kindliness. 

“Well, Obed, how goes the world with you? 
Come in, come in ; draw up a chair, and take a cup 
o’ tea. Mother’s all in her throngs to-day, but she’s 
as glad to see you as I am.” 

“Certainly, Mr. Pilcher,” said Mrs. Blake. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


17 


“ Pray sit down ; and Gideon, too, if lie’s going to 
stay.” 

“Why shouldn’t he stay?” said Joe Blake 
mildly, as if he noted something peculiar in his 
wife’s tone. He was large and dark, as Gideon was ; 
but there was none of Gideon’s strenuous gloom in 
his placid countenance. Only an easy-going man 
could have kept the peace as he did, between a fault- 
finding second wife and an irascible grown-up son, 
who were generally at daggers drawn. 

Gideon frowned, and Carry burst out laughing. 

“ Why, dad,” she said, “ he’s generally out with 
Emmy Enderby on a Saturday afternoon. Don’t 
you know that ? ” 

“ Emily Enderby is wiser than I took her for,” 
said Mrs. Blake’s exasperating voice. “ She knows 
the value of two strings to her bow.” 

“ Ah saw Emmy Enderby as ah come by,” said 
Obed Pilcher, his broad accent causing Mrs. Blake 
to shiver with affected horror at the sound. “ She 
was just sitting along of her mother, sewing of a 
gownd.” 

If he had expected to throw oil on the 
troubled waters, he was disappointed. Carry’s 


18 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


shrill laughter and shriller tones rang unmusically 
through the room. 

“ Her frock — her new frock for to-night ! ” she 
cried. “Uncle Obed, that’s just the fun. She’s 
going out with Mr. Fred Chiltem, from Hull : he’s 
to row her up to Farmby, and have supper at the 
inn with the Mortlock party — that’s what Emmy 
Enderby’s going to do. I shall see her. Gideon, 
why don’t you come, too ? ” 

There was a curious change in Gideon’s face ; it 
had turned pale, not red, and his lips were stern. 
He was still standing near the door; the others 
were seated, and Carry turned laughing eyes upon 
him from over the back of her chair. 

“ The fam’ly’s back at f Park,” said Obed, by 
way of changing the conversation; and Joe Blake 
grunted a sociable interest in the news. But the 
women of the family could not let Emmy 
Enderby’s doings pass without further criti- 
cism. 

“ If she gets Fred Chiltem, she’ll do very well,” 
said Mrs. Blake. “ He has a very good position, I 
hear. He’s foreman already, and they say he’ll 
be a partner by and by. He has real nice man- 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


19 


ners, too — so amiable and obliging — which is more 
than can be said of all young men.” 

“I expect they’ll come back engaged,” said 
Carry, giggling in Gideon’s face. “ Shall you be 
sorry, Gid ? ” 

“ You’ll be sorry soon that you can’t hold your 
tongue,” replied her stepbrother grimly. 

“ I’ll tell Emmy you said so ! I’ll tell her how 
cross you were ! I’ll tell her — oh ! oh ! Ma, make 
him leave off ! ” For Gideon had seized her by 
the shoulders with no gentle hands. 

“ How dare you touch my child? You brute! 
Why don’t you speak to him, Joseph ? Carry, you 
shouldn’t tease ! Gideon, for goodness’ sake ! don’t 
sit down with us if you can’t keep your temper.” 

“I don’t mean to,” said Gideon, upon whom 
Mrs. Blake’s tempest of scolding words fell with 
very little effect. “ I only wish I had never to sit 
down with that little vixen any more.” 

“ Gid ! Gid ! ” muttered the mild-natured 
father. 

But Gideon did not hear. He strode out of 
the room and banged the door behind him, like 
the ill-conditioned, unmannerly boy that he was. 


20 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


And Mrs. Blake scolded her husband in place 
of him for the rest of the meal. 

Obed Pilcher and his brother-in-law retired to 
a garden bench shortly afterwards, to smoke their 
long clay pipes in peace. Joe Blake was not much 
disturbed in his mind, but Obed was uneasy. 

“ That boy o’ yourn ” he said at last, with 

difficulty. 

“ Eh ? ” said Joe. 

“ He be maain soft on Emmy Enderby.” 

“He be main cranky -tempered,” said Gideon’s 
father with serenity. “ I often thinks to myself, if 
I’d ha’ laid the strap on him a bit oftener when he 
was small, he’d ha’ been easier to deal with now. 
My missis often told me so, but I allers said I didn’t 
hold wi’ too much flogging.” 

“ He wouldn’t lia’ stood it,” said Obed ; “ he’d 
ha’ run away to sea, or summat. The lad’s got 
mettle. 4 Faythers, provoke not your children to 
wrath,’ is Scripter words.” 

“Ay, but there’s another text of a different 
bearin’,” said Joe doubtfully : “ ‘ Spare the rod an’ 
spile the child,’ eh ? It’s what Lavinia’s been quot- 
ing to me ever since Gideon was that high.” 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


21 


“Wimmin doan’t understand men-folk, nor yet 
boys,” said Obed. “Least of all Gideon. She’d 
ha’ drove him out o’ Casterby years ago, if she’d 
had the fettlin’ of him. Ah doan’t know where he 
gets his sperit from. It bain’t you , Joe, nor was it 
poor Euth ; an’ ah’m blessed,” he added reflective- 
ly, “ if a’ gets it from meP 

“ Ay, you was alters a quiet sort o’ chap, Obed,” 
said Joe. “But though Gid mayn’t get his sperit 
from me, yet ’tis from my side o’ t’ house it springs 
from. There was an uncle o’ mine as was the same 
sperity, high-stummicked sort o’ chap. He ran 
away from hoame, an’ were lost at sea. They did 
say as he took after his grandf’er, who was just 
such another ; an’ that’s, mebbe, where Gideon gets 
his temper from, for they say it runs in fam’lies 
sometimes — like rheumatics.” 

“ Ah’ve heard that the Blakes was a terrible 
wild lot,” said Obed. “ It ’ud never do to be too 
hard on Gid, Joe.” 

' “Well, I beain’t hard on ’im ; it’s the missus, 
not me. An’ at Gid’s age, she can’t hurt him 
much.” 

“ Ah’ve bin thinkin’,” said Obed, with natural 


22 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


hesitation — “ah’ve bin thinkin’ he’ll want to be 
married afore long.” 

“ Ay, Emmy Enderby — if she’ll have him. But 
they’re ower-young yet.” 

“ He’s close on one-an’ -twenty. Ah’ve bin 
thinkin’ ” 

“Well, Obed?” 

“Ah’ve gotten more rooms i’ ma hoose than 
ah’ve any use for, Joe. If Gideon an’ Emmy 
was to coom, it ’ud be main an’ cheerful for 
me.” 

“ What — live with you ? ” said Blake, laying 
down his pipe and looking at Obed with perplexed 
interest. “ Gid and Emmy ? ” 

Mr. Pilcher nodded a solemn assent. 

“ Gid’s not — well, easy to live with, Obed.” 

“Ah knows Gid very well,” said the parish 
clerk, nodding his head. 

“ Have you asked him what he thinks of the 
plan ? ” 

“ Hay.” 

“ Emmy mayn’t like it, ye see. I don’t know, 
nayther, if she means to take him or not.” 

“She’ll take un,” said Obed with decision. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


23 


“ An’ — sithee, she’ll take un all the sooner if he’s 
got an house to put her in.” 

“A — ay,” said Joe Blake, with lengthened in- 
tonation. “ But Emmy’s high in her notions. The 
Enderbys was allers high.” 

“ Ah’m ’igh, too,” said Obed stolidly. 

And Joe heat his pipe meditatively against his 
hand, and wondered whether Obed had saved 
money. 

“ Then,” he said presently, “ there’s church.” 

“ Ay,” said Obed, “ there’s church, plaain eno’ ; 
what o’ that ? Gideon bean’t chapel ; nor Ender- 
bys nayther.” 

“No,” said Joe, with meaning, “ an’ I ain’t 
chapel, nayther ; but Gideon’s nowt. I don’t hold 
wi’ folk allers runnin’ off to meetin’, as chapel folks 
does ; but I likes ’em to go Christmas an’ Easter, 
an’ now an’ then of a Sunday. But Gideon’s 
turned against it ever since he was twelve year old, 
and not all the larrupin’ in the world ever served 
to get him back since the day when parson boxed 
him after service because he’d made a noise during 
psalms.” 

“ Ay, owd parson loikes to gie the boys a knock 


24 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


now an’ then,” said Obed, with perfect equanimity. 
“ They mostly desarves it. But he he too owd an’ 
blind to ha’ done much i’ that way lately.” 

“ But that won’t make Gid go to church any the 
more. An’ to my thinking, Obed, it be a trifle un- 
becoming that you, being parish clerk, should take 
to live wi’ you a young man as never passes the 
threshold. Parson ’ll take it as a reflection on his- 
self, and be put out ; and, for my part,” said Joe 
Blake slowly and wisely, “ I don’t hold wi’ offend- 
ing folk, in particular the quality.” 

u Thee can leave such matters to me, Joseph 
Blake,” said Obed, with a grand wave of his hand. 
“ Ah know what ah’m doin’, as well as most foalk. 
Wheer t’ wife goes, husband goes, an’ no question 
asked. Emmy ain’t one as ’ll be satisfied wi’out 
showin’ her new ribbons in church, nor her new 
husband, and Gid ’ll be like wax in them pretty 
fingers of hern. Doan’t thee think thasen so wise, 
Joe.” 

“Well, mebbe you’re right,” said Joe. Then 
he stood up and looked into the distance, with a 
softer light in his deep-set dark eyes. “ Ah’m not 
one to trouble the church much,” he said, “ but I 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


25 


sometimes tliink Ruth ’ud be vexed to see the lad 
so set against it — an’ you the parish clerk an’ all. 
So do as you like, Obed Pilcher — do as you like.” 

“ Ah mun be gooin,’ ” said Obed. “ Ah’ll 
mebbe see the lad to-night, an’ cheer un up wi’ the 
news. He’s a bit downcast now, but it’ll be all 
right when young Chiltern’s gone back to Hull.” 

He took his leave, and marched off in search of 
his nephew. 

But Gideon was nowhere to be found. 


II. 

“ The God of Love — ah, benedicite ! ” 

Obed did not find his nephew, because Gideon 
had haunts of his own where no other foot ever 
penetrated. Over the workshop there was a low, 
dark garret, a mere hole beneath the eaves, which 
the lad had made into a den for himself. It 
showed his unlikeness to his compeers in Casterby 
that he should ever have conceived the desire of a 
hiding-place. The average youth dislikes to be 
alone. But a certain amount of loneliness was to 
Gideon as the breath of life. 

His chamber had a sloping roof for a wall, and 
was barely six feet in breadth, although of con- 
siderable length, as it extended the whole length of 
the workshop. It had once been open to wind and 
rain, but Gideon had stealthily filled in the side 

with boards, and had then contrived to fasten a 
26 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


27 


pane of glass into them for the sake of light. At 
first this had been enough for him ; but after a 
time he put in a latticed window with hinges, so 
that he could get air as well as light. For, as it 
happened, there was an excellent view of the 
meadows and the river from Gideon’s glory-hole, 
and he had grown, without knowing why, to love 
it. Sometimes, when no one knew what had be- 
come of him, and even his father suspected that he 
was engaged in mere mischief-making, he was 
lying at full length under the eaves, with chin 
pillowed by his hands, gazing out at the sunlit 
fields, at the clear shimmering line of the river, at 
the thousand and one changes produced by light 
and shade in the landscape, which he seemed to 
know by heart, yet never knew well enough. He 
could barely stand upright in his garret, but he 
could lie down and gaze out of the window, or he 
could sit and read. He was not much of a reader, 
however; he liked better to watch the sky, or to 
use his hands in the carving of wood to shapes 
which had more artistic value than he knew. Few 
persons knew of his skill in this respect. He 
carved things for the pleasure it gave him, not for 


28 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


sale or show. There was a walking-stick, rich in 
grotesques, which he meant one day for Obed 
Pilcher ; a work-box, entwined with creeping 
stems and flowers and fruit, for Emmy Enderby; 
a picture-frame, designed to hold a hideous black 
outline of his mother’s head — the only likeness he 
had of her — for his father; but as yet he had 
never summoned up courage to give any of these 
things to their rightful owners. He felt a certain 
shyness about it. And very likely nobody would 
care for his work, after all. So he said to himself 
in moments of depression, which with him were 
not rare. 

He had not a happy disposition. He could not 
take things easily as others did. Life seemed hard 
to him. He had known little love, and love was 
the only thing that would have sweetened his tem- 
per and softened his self-will. He was believed by 
his stepmother to have no feeling; but in reality 
every one of her harsh words made him suffer 
acutely. He did not doubt that all she said was 
true. He was morose, selfish, violent, domineering, 
even brutal — people said so, and that was enough. 
It made him worse to know the character that his 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


29 


little world gave him ; in his dark moods he used 
to resolve to be as bad as his stepmother believed 
him. Even his father had no faith in him, al- 
though he was kind enough. The only person 
who trusted him through thick and thin was his 
uncle, Obed Pilcher. And Gideon loved him for 
it in his heart. 

It was not easy to get on with Gideon, cer- 
tainly. His hand was against every man’s, and 
every man’s hand against his. He had a sullen, 
ungovernable temper, and a habit of brooding mel- 
ancholy which was often mistaken for sullenness. 
And he was very ignorant. He had refused to go 
to school after he was twelve years old, and at the 
same age, as his father had said, he had also re- 
belled against church. Casterby was neither a 
scholarly nor a church-going place; nevertheless, 
Gideon’s revolt was unprecedented, and caused him 
to be set down as a black sheep. Careful mothers 
kept their children away from him ; strict fathers 
forbade their sons to make him their friend. They 
did not care about religion themselves ; but it was 
not respectable never to be seen at church. Thus 
Gideon was an Ishmael at a very early age, and 


30 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


had an evil reputation which was hardly warranted 
by his deeds. 

It is many years since Gideon Blake was young, 
and Casterby is a changed place nowadays. Its 
grammar-school is becoming famous ; its church is 
ritualistic and “ advanced ” ; it is rather proud of 
its sanitary condition, its electric lighting, its shady 
side-walks. But in those days the grammar-school 
had barely half a dozen pupils, taught by an ineffi- 
cient old man, who ultimately drank himself to 
death ; and the empty church was a desolate place, 
where the congregation made use of the altar-table 
and the font as convenient resting-places for their 
hats, and the clerk read the responses from the 
lowest tier of a “ three-decker ” ; and the streets 
were paved with cobble-stones, and the back lanes 
were a disgrace to civilization. What wonder, 
then, if Gideon Blake’s mental powers and moral 
nature were allowed to run wild, and his nobler 
instincts to die down without a struggle, because 
no one cared whether his soul were alive or 
dead ? 

But the finer the nature, the more keenly it 
suffers when starved in this way. Gideon did not 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


31 


know why he suffered, but now and then he was 
conscious of a desperate intolerance of his lot. He 
wanted something, and he could not put his longing 
into words. The wonder was that his impatience 
had not driven him forth into the world, to find out 
what was wrong with himself and his life. But he 
was withheld for two reasons. One was his silent 

affection for his uncle, Obed Pilcher, to whom he 

* 

knew himself to be the centre of existence. The 
other reason was one of temperament. With all 
his impatience and rebellion of spirit, he had the 
habit of dumb endurance, which had, perhaps, de- 
scended to him through generations of peasant fore- 
fathers — the reticence, the passivity of men of the 
soil. He could feel, suffer, endure ; he hardly 
knew how to take the initiative in freeing himself 
from bonds. 

His one solace lay in that window in the garret, 
which was to him like a window of the soul. He 
had strange thoughts of life and death, of God 
and of eternity, as he lay and watched the passing 
of the clouds, the shining of the sun by day, the 
great procession of the stars by night. He could 
not have put them into words to save his life, and 


32 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


yet they made him different from the ordinary bu- 
colic youth — they set a barrier between him and 
the shop-lads who measured ribbons at noon, and 
pursued questionable recreations when the shop 
was shut. They made him vaguely contemptuous 
of the ordinary occupations and interests of his 
kind, yet they supplied him with no definite in- 
terests or objects of his own. Many an observer 
would have judged these long solitary musings as 
things that did harm rather than good. 

And yet, finer issues might be hoped for, when 
the spirit was so finely touched by things that per- 
tained to heaven rather than to earth. 

Into this sad-coloured, self-centred life there 
came quite suddenly that blossoming of the whole 
being which goes by the name of love. 

“ Emmy Enderby ! ” How often he had said 
the simple little name to himself ! He had carved 
it with a hundred different flourishes and designs 
all over the walls of his room. He had dreamed 
of her night and day ever since she first took his 
fancy captive ; he had lost the memory of his old 
aspirations — if the vague thoughts of his future 
could be dignified by that name — henceforth he 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


33 


lived only for her. It was a passion of unusual 
intensity in one so young, a tropical passion, almost 
unknown in the green wastes of Casterby, where 
love was rated for the most part as a matter for 
mingled jocosity and shame. Gideon was not 
ashamed of his love, nor inclined to make a joke 
of it. He would have proclaimed it — rudely and 
fiercely, perhaps — to all the world, if he could. It 
was a fire that consumed him — a sacred flame. 

He had known Emmy Enderby since she was a 
child ; but he had never noticed her until her return 
from the cheap boarding-school to which she had 
been sent for a couple of years by her proud parents. 
Proud they were of her beauty, of her cleverness, 
and willing to make sacrifices for her sake. Her 
father was only an ironmonger, though for some 
years a successful one, and he did not set himself up 
to rank with Mr. Blake, who had a wood-yard and 
a flourishing business and a good many workmen 
under him. Such fine distinctions would have been 
almost incomprehensible to the minds of the Rector’s 
family or the Lisles ; they would have classed the 
Blakes and the Enderbys together as tradespeople, 
and seen no difference. But there was all the 


34 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


difference in the world in Casterby eyes ; for James 
Enderby kept a mere shop, while Joseph Blake 
ranked as a wholesale dealer and supplied “ the 
trade.” 

Moreover, Enderby had come down in the world. 
He had failed once, and was now doing business “ in 
a very small way.” But Emmy, six months home 
from school, and barely eighteen, was unaffected by 
her father’s troubles, and amused herself all day long 
to the best of her ability, while her mother toiled at 
household matters and the management of a large 
family. Emmy certainly toiled not, neither did she 
spin. She felt herself too pretty and too superior 
to work ; and the girls at school had told her that 
she was sure to be married before she was nineteen. 
Emmy thought that she would like to be married — 
and she also liked Gideon Blake. She was not 
formally “ engaged ” to him, but she knew that she 
might be whenever she chose. 

Her liking of him, however, did not restrain her 
from flirting with any man who made advances to 
her. All the more had she done this since she had 
discovered that her flirtations drove Gideon into a 
frenzy of jealousy. It amused her to see her power 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


35 


over him, and it was not in her nature to under- 
stand the suffering which she inflicted. Perhaps she 
would not have cared much, if she had understood. 

Up in the little room beneath the roof, Gideon 
waited and watched. He was undergoing a silent 
agony of wounded feeling. He writhed with pain as 
he pictured the scenes in which Emmy was moving : 
he saw her helped into the barge by Fred Chiltern’s 
hand ; sitting close to Fred Chiltern, perhaps with 
his arm round her waist when darkness began to 
fall ; allowing him to kiss her, perhaps, when they 
said good-bye. At that moment he loathed Fred 
Chiltern — hitherto known to him as a dapper, self- 
satisfied harmless little draper’s assistant, whom he 
had considered as a person of no account whatever — 
loathed and hated him with a passionate hatred 
which turned him giddy and sick with its vehe- 
mence. But he did not move ; he lay motionless, 
watching the golden afternoon glide into the mel- 
lower evening light, and the shadows of the poplar 
trees in the hedges grow so long that they stretched 
half across the meadows, and the clear waters of the 
winding river turn red here and there as if they 
were tinged with blood. It was not until the 


36 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


colour had begun to die out of the landscape, and a 
light haze to show itself across the fields, that he 
roused himself from his crouching position, and, 
after some consideration, crept down the ladder 
which gave access to his garret, and made his way 
into the street. 

His father’s house and yard were not on the 
highroad, but on one that crossed the main street 
of Casterby at right angles — a by-way, leading to 
nowhere in particular, losing itself in a narrow lane 
and a stretch of fields at the further end. But two 
minutes’ walk brought Gideon to the street of red- 
brick irregular houses, here beginning to look less 
crowded together than in the centre of the town, 
for the Blakes’ side-street was near the outskirts of 
Casterby, leading from the uninteresting white road 
that crept away from the red houses to its course 
between the fields. Gideon did not turn to the left 
hand, which would have led him out of the town. 
He faced to the right, and swung down towards 
the Market Place and the river. 

The shops were shut, and the twilight of a June 
day was closing in. Yery few persons were in the 
streets. There was a little group round the steps of 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


37 


the Independent chapel, the little red-brick build- 
ing near Dane Street (the by-road in which Joseph 
Blake lived) ; but Gideon avoided it by passing on 
the other side. After crossing the road, he passed 
close by the open gate of the Homan Catholic 
chapel — places of worship were thick in Casterby — 
and he gave a glance of contempt and disgust at 
the building as he Went by. He had no particular 
love for his own form of religious faith, but he had 
been brought up to despise all others. Yet he was 
not without a kind of sneaking curiosity to know 
what went on inside the place which he had heard 
vaguely and inaccurately described as “the very 
gate of hell.” If there was not much religion, 
there was a good deal of theological bitterness in 
Casterby. A glimpse of lighted candles, a whiff of 
stale incense, seen and felt now and then as he hur- 
ried by, had always produced a peculiarly poignant 
sensation in Gideon’s mind. He would have told 
you that it was repulsion, but it was much more 
like fascinated dread. 

On this night, however, he had no time for 
thoughts beyond himself. He shrank from speak- 
ing even to his uncle Obed, whom he vaguely saw 


38 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


standing near the door of the parish church, set 
lengthwise, east and west, along the side of the 
street, as he sped onward to the Market Place — a 
wide oblong space, paved with cobble-stones, and 
ascending on one side towards the gray arch of the 
bridge across the river. After the bridge, the 
houses on either side of the road meandered a little, 
and very soon ceased altogether, but Gideon did 
not go very far. He only crossed the bridge, and 
turned aside to the towing-path beside the river. 
The thought had come to him that he would walk 
a little way from the bridge and wait — perhaps on 
the other side of the next hawthorn hedge — for the 
return of the pleasure-barge. 

For a little distance the path was rough and 
covered with cinders. There was Herashaw’s 
brewery and its out-houses beside the river on one 
side, and some coal-slieds and high windowless 
buildings on the other. After these erections came 
a little river-side house or two : one with a garden, 
generally occupied by some Dissenting minister 
or other ; and one, much nearer the water’s edge, 
which belonged to Obed Pilcher. Gideon glanced 
at this' house with a sensation of relief — he was glad 


OUT OF DUB SEASON. 


39 


that his uncle had not come home, and that he was 
on the other side of the river. He passed the brew- 
ery, got free of the cinders, and threw himself down 
on the grass of a field, on the further side of a tall 
hedge which effectually screened him from the eyes 
of townsfolk on the bridge. Here he lay and 
waited, until the shadows gathered thickly about 
him, and the moon came out above the poplar-trees. 

Gradually all sounds died away. The water 
made a gentle plashing now and then. The scent 
of meadowsweet was wafted to his nostrils, and 
white moths fluttered dimly about him in the twi- 
light ; once an owl sailed past his head with a rush 
of great soft wings, otherwise he. was undisturbed. 
Hot until close upon eleven o’clock — he heard it 
strike from the church tower soon afterwards — was 
he conscious of the first faint sign of the returning 
water-party. 

A strain of music first — the sound of voices 
singing. They always sang as they came home — 
Gideon knew that. He hated the sound, although 
distance made it rather sweet upon the listening air. 
They were singing a pretty, plaintive ditty, newer 
then to English ears than it is now — one of the 


40 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


American plantation songs, which always have 
a note of melancholy beneath their quaintness. 
“Way down npon de Swanee River” — Gideon 
could himself sing it with the best of them, but he 
buried his fingers in his ears and would not recog- 
nise its sweetness as it drew near. Only when the 
boat came round a corner into the moonlight, and 
he could see as well as hear, did he look up. He 
was not quite near enough to distinguish faces, but 
he was sure that he could see Emmy’s big white 
hat and the white frock and blue ribbon that she 
was sure to wear. He could not be mistaken in 
that slim white figure, even although it was encir- 
cled by the arm of a man whom Gideon vaguely 
knew to be Fred Chiltern. 


“ All de world am sad and dreary 
Wheresoe’er I roam. 

Oh, darkies, how my heart grows weary ” 


Then there was a breakdown and a laugh. The 
very pathos of the words, which almost brought a 
sob into Gideon’s throat, seemed ridiculous to these 
young people. 

“ The old folks at home are welcome to see the 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


41 


last of me, any time they like ! ” cried one reckless 
young voice. 

“ If I found the world so sad and dreary as all 
that, I’d go and drown myself,” laughed another ; 
and this time Gideon thrilled all over, for it was 
Emmy who had spoken. 

“No fear,” answered another, and then the 
boat swept on to the landing-place, and there 
was an indiscriminate hubbub of shouts, rat- 
tling chains, a bump or two, the sound of feet 
on the pathway, as the girls were jumped to land 
by their swains, the light laughter of voices 
saying good-bye. Gideon rose and looked at the 
little group from over the hedge. “I’ll take 
Miss Enderby home,” he heard Fred Chiltern 
say. 

Should he interfere? For a moment he was 
inclined to step forward and declare his right to be 
Emmy Enderby’s escort. Why should Chiltern see 
her home through the echoing streets, where the 
moonlight lay so white and chill upon the stones ? 
It was his place — his, to be at Emmy’s side, for 
had she not let him tell her that he loved her? 
Perhaps since then she had let Fred Chiltern tell 


42 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


her the same story ? Gideon held back ; he had 
forfeited his place. 

In five minutes they had dispersed, and even 
the sound of ringing footsteps on the bridge had 
died away. Gideon flung himself down on the 
grass again, the hot tears in his eyes, the convulsive 
sobs in his throat. He had not cried since he was 
a child ; but something overcame his manhood now. 
He wept, with his face pressed to the warm dry 
earth, his hands clutching restlessly at the tuft of 
herbage within reach. He was shaken from head 
to foot by the misery of a thwarted desire. 

In the early light of morning he crept back to 
his loft over the wood-shed, and lay there until he 
could slip into the house unseen. Ho one had 
missed him. His movements were so erratic that 
even Mrs. Blake had dropped the habit of in- 
quiring whether he were at home or not when she 
locked the house-door. It was known that he slept 
in the loft whenever he felt disposed. 

Emmy Enderby was not quite happy in her 
mind when she awoke on Sunday morning. She 
had been later the night before than her mother 
approved, and in her own fleart she knew that she 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


43 


had gone further in her flirtation with Fred 
Chiltem than she had intended to do. And she 
was aware that Gideon was angry — Carry Blake 
had left her in no doubt upon that subject — and 
although she told herself with a laugh that she did 
not care, she knew that she was a trifle afraid of his 
anger. She had been proud of leading in a leash 
the lion which no one but herself could tame ; but 
how if the lion turned and crushed her, after all ? 

Emmy was very orthodox on a Sunday. She 
went to church in all her bravery, and sat with the 
quietest of her younger sisters in a pew where her 
new muslin and her hat with the feathers had the 
greatest chance of being observed by all the con- 
gregation. Then, in the afternoon, she con- 
descended so far as to teach a class in the Sunday- 
school, where her services as a performer on the 
harmonium were also in requisition. The Sunday- 
school was very small and very badly managed, for 
the Rector was old and in delicate health, and left 
all such minor matters to the care of a young 
curate who neither knew nor cared much about the 
parish. It was he, however, who had asked Miss 
Enderby to become a teacher, and perhaps it was 


44 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


partly on that account that Emmy had con- 
sented. 

The Enderby’s shop was in the Market Place, 
and not five minutes’ walk from the school-house, 
and at five minutes to two precisely Emmy came 
out at the side-door with her bundle of little books 
in her hand, feeling very pious and very well 
satisfied with her own doings. She rather hoped 
that she might meet Fred Chiltem on the way, and 
be obliged to refuse to go for a walk with him. 
“ I am going to Sunday-school, Mr. Chiltem,” she 
imagined herself saying, with a demure droop of 
her eyelids. He would wonder if she were indeed 
the same girl that he had — well, talked to the night 
before (a different word had been upon her lips) ; 
and he would know that she was a good girl — a 
nice girl, “ and,” said Emmy to herself with a 
curious lack of humour, as she stepped out of the 
iron-monger’s house, “quite the lady.” For, to 
Emmy’s mind, teaching in a Sunday-school brought 
her up to the level of the Rectory young ladies, 
who also took a class when they were at home. 

She stepped out into the sunshine, her pink 
starched skirts — it was the fashion of the day — 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


45 


floating around her; her white leghorn hat, with 
its white feather, a model of daintiness. She wore 
a filmy white fichu, and very pale primrose kid 
gloves. The taste of the day was for bright 
colours, and Emmy knew that she looked well in 
them. She had bronze boots, and a lace handker- 
chief laden with scent, and a gold brooch and 
bracelets, and the youth of the neighbourhood 
admired her immensely. Then she was, without 
doubt, remarkably pretty. Her complexion was 
fine as the petal of a rose, and her small features 
were delicately cut. Her eyes were large, blue, 
and innocent-looking, and her curly hair was 
golden and abundant. It was a conventional type, 
but one that there could be no hesitation about — it 
was neither classic nor romantic nor picturesque, 
perhaps; it was simply very bright and very 
pretty. In our days, a girl with her eyes and hair 
would not be suffered to wear a staringly pink frock, 
but in the sixties pink was quite the proper thing. 

She came out, radiant as the dawn, fresh as a 
rose, and found herself face to face with Gideon 
Blake, whose brow was like a thunder-cloud 
indeed. 


46 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


She recoiled with a little exclamation. His face 
daunted her. In other ways, his appearance was 
better than usual ; he had donned his Sunday 
clothes, which he sometimes disdained to wear, and 
had made the best of himself. But his haggard 
eyes and cheeks, his pale lips, his threatening gaze, 
as well as a certain stony determination which sat 
upon every feature, caused her to shrink back 
within the doorway, and to say rather nervously : 

“ Oh, Gideon, how you startled me ! ” 

He looked at the radiant vision unappalled. 
He was in the mood when nothing would affect 
him but a simple yea or nay. Emmy’s fine feathers 
sometimes made him a little afraid of her ; but to- 
day he knew them for the mere externals and 
accessories that they were. 

“ I can’t stay,” said Emmy hurriedly. “ Don’t 
keep me, please, Gid; I am going to Sunday- 
school.” 

She made a little movement as if to pass him, 
but he stood blocking the way, and putting out 
one hand, he laid it on her wrist in a clasp that 
was quite gentle, yet which might tighten, as she 
felt, in one moment to a grip of steel. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


47 


“Yon are not going to Sunday-school or any- 
where else,” he said, “until you have answered 
me one question.” 

“Oh, Gideon, don’t he so silly! I shall be 
late. I’ll go for a walk with you after school. 
Won’t that do?” 

“ Ho, it won’t do. I’ve been waiting too long 
already. I want to -know whom you like best — 
Fred Chiltern or me ? ” 

“ Gideon, I cartt answer a question like that 
all in a moment ! ” 

“If you can’t,” he said, in level, unemotional 
tones, “you’ve answered it already, and I shall 
never ask you again. I shall never see you or speak 
to you again. I’ve made up my mind. So 
will you tell me in plain words, or will you not ? ” 

“Oh, Gideon!” she cried again. Then she 
drew back a pace or two within the passage of the 
house. “ I can’t answer such a question out 
there — in the Market Place. Everyone will see. 
Look over there ! I see Mrs. Larriper at her win- 
dow opposite, laughing.” 

“ She can’t hear what we say,” returned Gideon 
imperturbably. “I must know.” 


48 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


“Which I like best — Fred or you? Suppose 
I say Fred?” 

Gideon half turned on his heel. 

“ Yery well,” he answered in a smothered 
voice; “then I shall know what to do.” 

“What will you do?” cried Emmy, half 
alarmed, half impatient. “There’s nothing to do. 
What do you mean?” 

“I — could — kill him!” said Gideon, between 
his teeth. 

And he looked as if he meant it. There was 
a latent fierceness in his eyes and voice such as 
Emmy, in her peaceful English life, had never 
seen before. She uttered a little cry, and pulled 
him into the house. 

“ You silly boy ! How can you say such dread- 
ful things! You want to frighten me!” 

“I don’t want to frighten you,” said Gideon 
doggedly. The scowl upon his forehead was more 
pronounced than ever; he looked fixedly at the 
wall, as if he did not care to meet the horror of 
Emmy’s wide-eyed gaze. “I mean what I say. 
If you’re going to marry Chiltern, I’d just as soon 
be out of the world as in it. But he should go 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


49 


first. If lie robs me of the only thing I care for, 
he shall suffer for it. That would be only justice. 
And I give you fair warning.” 

“ But, Gideon — Gideon,” said Emmy, with face 
from which the rose-tints had fled, “ you are mis- 
taken. You must not talk in that way. ’ Indeed, 
I — I don’t like Mr. Chiltern better than you.” 

Gideon’s eye flashed. 

“ You like me best ? ” he said, putting out both 
hands. 

She placed hers in them — dropping her little 
books upon the floor — as she replied: 

“Yes, yes, indeed I do!” 

“ Emmy — do you love me ? ” 

“Oh, Gideon — yes, of course. Fancy asking 
me here — and now!” 

They were in a narrow entry, where the odours 
of a past dinner were very strong, and the voices 
of the family could be distinctly heard through 
the partition-wall. Perhaps it was an odd place 
in which to make love. But Gideon did not care. 
He shut the door behind him with his foot, and 
took the girl’s slight figure in his arms. Some- 
thing in his manner — its restraint rather than its 


50 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


passion — took hold of Emmy’s nature and seemed 
to hold it fast. From the moment when she felt 
the pressure of his lips on hers, she knew that she 
belonged to him as she could belong to no one 
else. The shallow, frivolous nature was pierced 
through by the shaft of his intense love and long- 
ing; she was lifted out of herself by the purest 
and strongest kind of feeling that she had ever 
known — by a love which seemed the fellow of Gid- 
eon’s own. But Gideon’s love was of the enduring 
kind ; and hers was, perhaps, a thing of rather 
ephemeral growth. 

He had never kissed her before; it had been 
counted against him as a fault in Emmy’s mind 
that he had never tried to kiss her. But now, as 
his lips clung to hers, she trembled with a sensa- 
tion of shame and fear, and was glad that he had 
reserved his caresses for a moment of silence and 
obscurity. She was glad to hide her face upon 
his shoulder, and it was her first experience of that 
sort of shy reserve. 

“My own love! my darling!” he murmured, 
still holding her close to him. 

“I must go — I really must,” she panted. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


51 


“ Mother or one of the children may come out at 
any moment.” 

“Yes; you can come out on the river with 
me.” 

“ Oh, Gideon, not on a Sunday ! ” 

“You went with that fellow last night; now 
you must come wdth me.” 

“ But there is the school ” 

“There’s the curate to keep order. You won’t 
go to that school any more, Emmy, so you may as 
well give it up at once.” 

Emmy felt a touch of rebellious indignation. 

“ Indeed, Gideon, I cannot give it up in this 
way ” 

“ Do you like the curate better than me ? Then 
go to the school,” said Gideon, suddenly releasing 
her hands. And Emmy felt that she had met her 
master ; it was not to her altogether an unpleasing 
discovery. 

“ Oh no, Gideon, don’t say that ! I will do ex- 
actly what you like,” she said humbly. “ I would 
a great deal rather go on the river with you, only — 
it is Sunday, and I have on this frock ; I’m afraid 
it will get spoiled. Let us go for a walk instead.” 


52 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“ Will yon go on the river with me — with me 
alone — to-morrow night ? ” said Gideon insist- 
ently. 

“ Yes, I will.” 

“ And never again without me ? ” 

She pouted a little. 

“Well, I don’t know. Oh, don’t be angry ” — 
she was developing a dread of Gideon’s power — “ I 
won’t go unless you allow me. Will that do, you 
tyrant ? ” 

He smiled, not displeased to be called a tyrant 
in such sweet tones by a pair of such pretty lips, 
with so daintily mutinous a glance from those blue 
eyes. He kissed her again, and asked her to come 
out at once. 

“ My books — I have dropped them all over the 
place, and they are Mr. Crewe’s.” 

“ Damn Mr. Crewe ! ” said Gideon. 

She turned a pretty, beseeching glance towards 
him. 

“ Oh, Gideon ! I hope you are not going to use 
language like that ! And you ought not to swear 
before a lady — without apologizing.” 

“ I apologize, then,” said he, without moving a 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


53 


muscle of his face. “ Only, don’t stop to pick up 
his books, or I’ll do it again.” 

“ Am I to leave them on the floor, then ? ” 

“ I’ll dispose of them,” he said, giving the little 
volume nearest him a vicious kick. “Crewe’s 
books indeed ! There it goes — all to pieces, you 
see. You can’t use that one again, and the 
other ” 

“Don’t touch that, it’s a Prayer-book,” said 
Emmy, with superstitious anxiety. “ I should 
never feel happy in our engagement if you kicked 
a Prayer-book, Gideon. Let us come out, now, 
and have a nice walk.” 

Gideon desisted from his attack on the books, 
shrugged his shoulders, and followed her out of the 
house. The neighbours, peering through their win- 
dows, were very much amazed to see Miss Enderby 
turn down towards the river instead of bending her 
steps, as usual, to the schools. 

“Ah, it’s that young Blake! Poor girl! I’m 
sorry she’s taken up with him. It’ll bring her sor- 
row, I’ve no doubt — and him too, maybe.” 

But nothing could have been further than sor- 
row from the minds of Gideon and Emmy as they 


54 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


strolled in the meadows that afternoon, or sat in 
the shade of the hawthorn hushes on the river-hank. 
They were supremely happy — Gideon because he 
had attained the desire of his heart. Emmy be- 
cause she was secure of her conquest. For, after 
those first few imperious moments, Gideon showed 
himself as humble a slave, as devoted a lover, as 
any woman could desire. Only once did the old 
jealous flame blaze out when he was talking to 
Emmy underneath the trees. 

“ That man — Chiltem — you did not let him 
make love to you, did you ? ” 

“ I could not help his being — a little — -fond of 
me, you know, Gideon,” said Emmy softly. 

“ But you did not encourage him ? ” 

“ Oh no, dear ! ” 

“ Emmy — you did not ever — let him kiss 
you ? ” 

He spoke out of his knowledge of the ways of 
Casterby girls of Emmy’s class. He was not at all 
surprised at the colour which burned on her cheeks 
as she replied — for, of course, Emmy was more sen- 
sitive, more delicate -minded, more refined, than the 
other girls he knew — 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


55 


“ Oh no, Gideon, never ! ” 

He believed her implicitly ; and Emmy, turning 
aside her flushed face, said to herself that of one 
thing she was certain — Gideon must never, never 
know ! 


III. 


“ If thou shouldst never see my face again, 

Pray for my soul.” 

To be married in the month of November was 
not the choice that Emmy Enderby would naturally 
have made ; but, as things turned out, she was not 
well able to help herself. Shortly after her engage- 
ment to Gideon, her father died suddenly, leaving his 
family quite unprovided for ; and it seemed better 
for Emmy to marry Gideon at once than to set out 
on a career of her own as nursery governess or 
shop-girl. Gideon was young — only just twenty- 
one — and she was eighteen, but he was earning 
enough under his father to support a wife, and old 
Obed Pilcher’s house on the river-bank was at their 
disposal. It was arranged, therefore, that the mar- 
riage should take place on the first of November, 
that Gideon should then go with his bride for a 
week’s visit to the seaside, and return at the end of 
that time to Uncle Obed’s house. 

56 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


57 


Everything was arranged with the most com- 
monplace simplicity. Emmy and her mother were, 
in spite of their recent bereavement, in a flutter of 
excitement about wedding clothes. Mrs. Blake be- 
came unusually good-tempered, when the prospect 
of losing Gideon as a house-mate drew nearer to real- 
ity ; her husband was benignly well-satisfied. Un- 
cle Obed was in the seventh heaven of delight. All 
that remained was that Gideon should show himself 
the conventionally happy bridegroom, and this, for 
some reason or other, Gideon declined to do. He 
was not satisfactory. 

For instance, on this the last evening of his 
bachelorhood, instead of an uproarious supper 
with his friends — instead, even, of hanging about 
the house of his beloved, and making love to her in 
the best parlour — he had chosen to come away from 
the warm, lighted rooms, to stride across the fields 
at the back of the Market Place, and away to the 
wood-yard, to his little den below the eaves. 

Nobody knew that he was there. Emmy 
thought he had gone home, a little vexed, perhaps, 
because she could not give him all the attention 
that he desired ; his own people thought that he was 


58 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


with Emmy. And he was sitting gloomily in the 
dark and the cold of his garret, listening to the 
howl of the wind and the swish of the rain-drops 
against the window-pane, looking out at the black 
clouds scurrying across the heavens, and at the 
twinkling of the lights in the little town, and real- 
izing in a strange new way that he was beginning 
another life, and that his wild-beast love of solitude 
ought henceforward to have an end. 

When Emmy was his wife, he would not be 
free to hide himself in his den, and hack away at 
pieces of wood by the hour together, or to sit and 
dream of things that could never be. Ho doubt it 
was a foolish, unmanly taste, this love of solitude 
and dreaming, and it would be better for him to 
give it up ; but his heart sank a little within him, 
nevertheless. He supposed it was because he was 
“ queer ” ; he had been called queer all his life ; 
even Emmy called him queer, although she loved 
him. And did she love him ? There, perhaps, was 
the rub. 

In the excitement, the almost delirious pleasure, 
of the last few months, he had scarcely stopped to 
ask himself the question. She had accepted him, 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


59 


and sent away Fred Cliiltern for liis sake ; surely 
that was an answer. But now, when his desire was 
so near fulfilment, a cold chill of doubt passed 
through him. She cared about her frocks, about 
her future home, about her prospects, but did she 
care for Kim f 

She laughed at his tastes; she could not see 
anything interesting in his unconsciously artistic 
woodwork. He had never dared to tell her of the 
thoughts that sometimes filled his soul. 

“ It will be better when we are married,” he 
said to himself, looking out into the darkness ; 
“ then she will begin to understand.” 

He was troubled sometimes by a certain unde- 
fined likeness between her and his half-sister Carry, 
who had always been a thorn in his side. They 
had set up a giggling school-girl friendship; and 
they had sometimes combined to laugh at him, and 
to call him a sulky bear. The time of his betrothal 
had not been all sunshine, but his eager love had 
borne him through its darker moments. How, at 
the last moment, he was conscious of this odd and 
(as some people would say) unnatural sinking of 
heart at the coming change. Perhaps it showed 


60 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


how unlike he was to others of his kind. The feel- 
ing of triumph, of elation, had left him. He was 
not precisely nervous, but he was afraid. 

By and by he lighted a candle, and surveyed 
the little hare room. He had taken out of it any- 
thing that was ornamental ; the carvings, the trifles 
that he had made for Emmy, had all gone to the 
new home. Some tools and pieces of wood lay 
about the floor ; a little bench and a shelf or two 
were all the remaining furniture. He put out his 
hand and felt along the dusty shelf, for the light of 
the candle was very dim. Presently his hand came 
in contact with the objects he had been seeking : 
two small brown books, evidently of considerable 
age. He took them down, brushed the dust from 
their backs, and looked at them. Were they worth 
taking with him to Emmy’s new home ? 

Emmy had a smart bookcase filled with briglit- 
ly-bound books. Some of them were cheap 
standard editions of the poets, given to her as 
birthday presents or as prizes; others were semi- 
religious story-books — “ Queeehy,” “ Say and Seal,” 
“ Father Clement,” and the like. Emmy had read 
the stories, but did not care for them; she pre- 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


61 


f erred Mrs. Henry Wood and Miss Braddon. Into 
the poets she had never glanced at all. Scott, 
Cowper, Wordsworth, Shakespeare, Thomson’s 
“ Seasons,” and Young’s “ Night Thoughts ” — what 
were they to her? But she liked the bindings, 
scarlet, or blue, or green, with a good deal of 
gilding on the backs; and she was quite proud 
of her library. Gideon also was not much of a 
reader, and knew what was inside those bindings 
rather less than herself. He did not think that 
his two poor little shabby books would look well 
on the shelves beside Emmy’s grand volumes, yet 
he did not like to throw them away. He had 
another store of his own — a few boys’ books, a 
few that treated of popular science ; these were to 
fill a shelf in a back room of his new house, but 
he had a reluctance to let these two go amongst 
them. Emmy would finger them, and call them 
rubbish; and he would not be able to tell her 
why he valued them. He knew too well that 
singular incapacity for speech which was begin- 
ning to attack him whenever he felt most deeply. 

He had never read either of these books. He 

cared for them from the instinct of old habit. 

5 


62 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


His grandmother had given one of them to him 
long ago, and told him its history. It was a relic 
of ancient days — a hook of Latin prayers, totally 
unintelligible to her, and to Gideon as well; but 
there was just the ghost of a story attached to 
it. In brown and faded ink upon the flyleaf was 
written the name of “John Gideon Blake.” Be- 
low it there was a date, “ November 1st, 1584,” 
and a few words which ignorant Gideon could not 
make out, but which his grandmother had told 
him signified, “Pray for my soul.” A Popish 
relic, as his grandmother had said; and the John 
Gideon Blake to whom it had belonged was of 
course no ancestor of theirs, but only a collateral — 
a good thing, considering that he had been a 
Romish priest, beheaded for treason in the reign 
of Good Queen Bess. The date in the book 
was that of his death, written with his own hand 
before he went to execution, as well as the words 
which Gideon could not read: “Ora pro anima 
mea.” Nothing more was known of him, and 
the book had survived, as if by miracle, to the 
present day, having been carefully kept, it was 
said, by the priest’s brother, who had transmitted 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


63 


it to his Protestant descendants. Thus it came 
into the hands of Gideon, who had indignantly 
demanded (in his early years) why he should have 
been called after a Popish priest? 

“ There was always a Gideon among the 
Blakes,” his grandmother had told him. “ Your 
grandfather — he was Gideon, too. That’s why I 
give the book to you. They say it’s valuable; 
it might fetch money if ever you wanted to 
sell it.” 

Gideon took the book and kept it. Nothing 
on earth would have induced him to part with it 
again ; in spite of his dislike to “ Papists,” which 
he had caught from Obed Pilcher and other rela- 
tions, there was some sort of distinction in hav- 
ing had a great-uncle, ever so many generations 
back, who was important enough to be put to 
death for treason. Gideon had rather a sym- 
pathy with anyone who rebelled against the powers 
that be. 

No, he would not take this book with him to 
his new home. He would let it lie on the shelf. 
It would be safe there ; nobody came to that room 
save himself. 


64 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


The other book was one of a very different 
school. It was “ The Pilgrim’s Progress,” and it 
had belonged to his mother. * Gideon had never 
troubled to read it, but as it had been his mother’s 
book, he did not like to throw it away. He 
turned over the leaves musingly, then looked once 
more at the flyleaf of the Latin book, which was, 
in fact, an ancient breviary. The date caught 
his eye, “November the second” — why, that would 
be his own wedding-day. He would be married 
on the very day when this kinsman of his went 
to his death. Gideon caught his breath a little. 
It flashed across his mind that if he had remem- 
bered, he would not have chosen the second of 
November for his wedding-day. 

He was too ignorant to know anything about 
Old Style and New Style, and the difference of 
the calendar, neither had he any religious asso- 
ciation connected with the day. He was a pro- 
vincial English lad, and All Souls’ Day was quite 
unknown to him. But there was something that 
moved him in the thought of this man, of his own 
blood, who had been executed on the very day 
(as Gideon thought) which was to bring happi- 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


65 


ness to Emmy and himself. And he had wanted 
people to pray for his soul ! A Popish supersti- 
tion, for what was the good of praying for the 
soul of one who was dead and buried ? — but per- 
haps that was his way of asking to be remem- 
bered. Gideon slipped the book into his pocket, 
instead of putting it back in its place, and said 
“ Poor chap ! ” to himself, with a thrill of involun- 
tary pity. To go out of the world like that, 
nearly three hundred years ago, and to be quite 
forgotten, while he, Gideon, was alive and young 
and about to marry Emmy Enderby! 

He blew out his candle, and stood staring out of 
the window for some time, troubled against his will, 
as if something — somebody — had called to him out 
of that past of which he knew so little. A more 
imaginative person than Gideon Blake might have 
fancied that the dead priest’s spirit had come back 
to earth to whisper in his ear. That was what 
would have been said in mediaeval times. But 
Gideon was the creature of his circumstances, and 
he lived in a milieu which forbade morbid imagin- 
ings of the sort. A prosaic artisan, in a prosaic 
country town, knowing nothing of religion save 


66 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


from the strongly Protestant point of view, and 
utterly intolerant of superstition — how should any 
such foolish notion present itself even to his 
untutored mind ? It would he more natural to 
this generation to suggest that even in this com- 
monplace Lincolnshire family there might he a 
sport — a freak of Nature — a “throw-hack,” hy 
which the modern young carpenter reproduced in a 
different environment the nature, the instincts, the 
tendencies of a fanatical Roman priest who died 
for his cause three hundred years ago. 

He turned abruptly from the window at last, 
and left the room without making any further 
researches. He went out into the muddy, un- 
liglited lane, and made his way, despite wind and 
rain, into the main street of the town. With hands 
thrust in his pockets, and head down-bent, he 
looked extremely unlike a bridegroom, and Emmy 
would not have been flattered if she had seen him 
pacing the wet street in this guise. Fortunately 
for him, he met none of his acquaintances; the 
rain poured too heavily for any of them to be 
abroad, and the pavements were deserted. 

A flood of light on the wet flags before him 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


67 


attracted his attention. He looked up and started a 
little at finding himself just before the iron gates 
that led to the Roman Catholic chapel, which had a 
small green space between its doors and the road. 
The doors were open, and one or two people were 
putting up their umbrellas and coming towards the 
gate. Gideon hesitated. It seemed to him a 
curious coincidence that he should be standing at 
this gate so soon after looking at the book once 
used by the one Romanist (so far as he knew) in his 
family. There was no coincidence, of course, 
about the matter, for he passed close by that gate 
every day of his life, but he had never before felt 
inclined to enter it. Some curiosity stirred him ; 
he wondered, for the first time, what these ignorant 
Papists believed ; he wondered whether anyone in 
that little chapel could explain to him why John 
Gideon Blake, priest, had desired his friends to 
pray for his soul. He went inside the gates. 

He was not likely to get much for his pains. 
It was between eight and nine o’clock, and the con- 
gregation was dispersing after an eloquent and 
impassioned sermon from a stranger upon the 
blessedness of the saints. Gideon knew nothing 


68 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


about saints, and would only have stared if anyone 
had told him that it was All Saints’ Day. He 
went into the church and gazed blankly at the 
empty seats, at the wealth of white flowers on the 
altar, at the rows of candles which someone was 
putting out with an extinguisher at the end of a 
stick. A great wooden crucifix brought from Nu- 
remberg, life-size and coloured, startled him more 
than he would have liked to say. He had never 
seen such a thing before. He looked round, 
caught a woman’s eyes fixed on him in wonder, 
and retreated in guilty confusion to the vestibule. 
Here for a moment he waited, for the rain was 
coming down in torrents. He thought himself 
a fool for having come out at all. 

“ Can I do anything for you ? ” said a voice 
at his ear. 

He turned hastily, and found that the woman 
whom he had seen looking at him, had followed 
him out of the church. Woman ? She was not 
a woman, she was a girl only, and he knew her 
face. She was one of the Lisle family at Casterby 
Park; they were all Homan Catholics, he knew. 
There were two or three girls; this one was the 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


69 


eldest, but she was always spoken of as “Miss 
Frances,” because she had an aunt living at the 
Park who was Miss Lisle. 

“ I mean,” the sweet clear voice went on, “ did 
you want anything? did you want anybody in 
particular ? ” 

“No,” said Gideon. He felt that his answer 
was abrupt and harsh, but he did not know what 
to say. He wished desperately that he had never 
come. 

“I am waiting for my uncle — Father O’Brien 
is my uncle,” said the young lady, alluding, as 
Gideon knew, to the priest who served the little 
chapel at Casterby. “He is going to drive home 
with me. I thought you might perhaps be look- 
ing about for him.” 

Did she think him a possible convert ? Gideon 
scowled at her as the thought crossed his mind. 
And yet she did not look as if she had any ulterior 
motive for her question. There was something 
in her face that pleased him, although he could 
not have told you why. 

Frances Lisle was nineteen years of age. She 
was rather under than over the middle height, 


70 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


and she had never been considered beautiful. But 
there was a peculiar serenity on the broad in- 
telligent brows, and in the soft gray eyes, which 
made her face pleasant to look upon. Her rip- 
pling brown hair was fastened into a soft knot 
behind her head, very unlike the hard glossy 
lump called a chignon in these days. Her face 
had very little colour, and the sensitive curves 
of her lips were none the less beautiful because 
they were, in a sense, contradicted by the square- 
ness of her white chin. She had the look of a 
supremely reasonable woman, of a woman whose 
gentleness comes from sympathy, comprehension, 
intelligence, not from weak compliance. It de- 
pended a little upon your own nature whether 
you were more struck by the sweetness or the 
strength of her face. Gideon saw the strength. 

“ I came i n out of curiosity,” he said, almost 
sullenly. “ I saw the doors open, and I won- 
dered what was going on.” 

“Oh yes, I see. It is All Saints’ Day, and 
we have had Benediction and a sermon,” said 
Frances, simply. “You are not— a Catholic?” 

Gideon shook his head vehemently. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


71 


“Oh dear no! But” — faltering a little — “I 
suppose I had a relation once who was. His 
name is in this hook,” he said, producing the little 
brown volume from his pocket. He had imme- 
diately afterwards a sensation of shame at the 
thought that he could show to this stranger a book 
which he had kept carefully from Emmy’s eyes. 
“I was told by my grandmother that he was a 
priest, and I wanted to know what sort of a book 
it was. I think that was partly my idea in coming 
in here; I thought that Mr. O’Brien would tell 
me, perhaps.” 

He purposely abstained from saying Father 
O’Brien, although the good old priest was usually 
known by that title; but Frances did not notice 
the omission. She made a little exclamation when 
her eyes fell on the fly-leaf of the book. 

“ Oh ! ” she said, colouring — Gideon could not 
imagine why; but it was from pure surprise and 
pleasure — “this is very interesting! He was a 
relation of yours, was he ? . This is a breviary 
— a service-book, used by our priests, you know. 
What an old book!” 

She looked up at him questioningly. Gideon 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


72 

gave the information that he felt she wanted from 
him, though with a curious reluctance. 

“He was a brother of my great-great — more 

* 

great than I can count — great-grandfather, and he 
was beheaded for treason in Queen Elizabeth’s 
time,” he said doggedly. He could not at all under- 
stand the flash of emotion that passed across the 
young lady’s face. 

“He was a martyr, then? He died for his 
faith ? How splendid for you to have such an ex- 
ample before you ! But I forgot — you are not of 
our religion. Oh, what a pity ! ” 

Gideon held out his hand for the book. 

“ I’m no Papist, certainly,” he said. “ If he 
was executed for treason, I dare say it served him 
right. I felt a little curious about the book ; that’s 
why I asked what it was. I don’t know Latin my- 
self.” 

“But it is a relic — a real relic,” said Frances, 
over whose eyes a sudden cloud of pity had stolen. 
She was what the world calls a bigot — a devote in 
her way — having been educated in a convent, and 
taught to look upon England as a heathen, unregen- 
erate land. She could not help feeling as if this 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


73 


young man were a savage, into whose ignorant 
hands some very precious thing had fallen, of which 
he could not possibly estimate the value and advan- 
tage. She was sorry to give him back the book. 
“ I wish you would let my uncle see it ; he would 
be very much interested. We should value it very 
much if you thought of parting with it ” 

“ Parting with it ! ” cried Gideon, almost an- 
grily. “I should never think of such a thing. 
Why, it’s been in the family for three hundred 
years. I only wanted to know what the book was 
about.” 

“ Would you like some of it to be translated and 
explained to you ? ” said Frances quickly. 

“No, thank you. It’s only prayers and serv- 
ices, you say — I don’t want them. I thought it 
might be something different. It isn’t the book I 
care so much about as the — the name — and all 
that.” 

“ Yes, the name and the inscription,” said Miss 
Lisle. “‘Pray for my soul.’ You don’t do that, 
do you, as you are a Protestant ? But — may I 
look again ? Why, to-morrow is the date of his 
death.” 


74 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“And my wedding-day,” said Gideon, with an 
odd smile. 

“ Is it really ? Yes, I remember hearing of it. 
Your father comes to the Park sometimes, I think,” 
said Frances, dropping her eyes. She had only just 
made out his identity, and she was a little sorry that 
he was the black sheep of whom she had sometimes 
heard. But she was not sorry that she had spoken 
to him. In spite of her simplicity, she knew quite 
well that she was one of the great ladies of the 
place, and that it was quite within her right to 
speak to whomsoever she pleased in Casterby. The 
Blakes were her father’s tenants, and Joseph Blake 
was a respectable person and a clever workman : 
she knew that. “All Souls’ Day seems to us a 
strange day for a marriage,” she went on, with a 
little smile, “ because it is on that day that we pray 
for our dead. I will have a Mass said for this mar- 
tyred priest, your great-uncle, Mr. Blake, on the 
second of November every year. He shall not be 
forgotten any more, although his own people do not 
pray for his soul.” 

Gideon turned a startled, incredulous eye upon 
her. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


75 

“ Pray ? What’s the good of praying ? ” he 
said, almost rudely. Then he took the hook out of 
her hand and put it back into his pocket. “ I sup- 
pose I ought to thank you — in his name — but I 
can’t see the good of it.” 

“ I shall pray for you, too, then,” said Frances, 
her gray eyes shimmering through a mist of tears. 
“ P erhaps you will be glad of it some day. Here is 
my uncle. May I introduce you to him, and show 
him the book ? ” 

“Ho, no — I’d rather not,” said Gideon, hur- 
riedly. He was utterly confused and astonished by 
her words, and did not know the extent of his own 
discourtesy. “ I’m very much obliged to you, but I 
must go.” 

“Good-bye, then,” said Frances, extending a 
small ungloved hand. “I shall think of you to- 
morrow. I hope you will be happy. And I will 
not forget to pray for your uncle’s soul.” 

“ Why, what good will it do him ? ” said Gideon, 
as he awkwardly shook her hand and turned away. 

He plunged into the darkness, regardless of the 
rain, only anxious to escape from Frances’s gentle 
enthusiasm, and from the peering inquisition of the 


76 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


sacristan, who was hovering in the background, and 
the keen, kindly eyes of Father O’Brien, who came 
hurriedly down the aisle in search of his niece. 
The carriage from the Park was waiting at the 
gate ; its red lamps shone through the misty gloom, 
and the horses, invisible from the chapel-door, 
pawed the ground and made the harness jingle in 
an impatience which the coachman shared. Father 
O’Brien handed his niece into the carriage, and 
they drove away. 

“ And who was that young fellow you were 
talking with, Frances?” asked the uncle during 
that homeward drive. 

Frances told the story, ending with some lamen- 
tation over the fate of the book in Gideon’s 
keeping. 

“ The lad has a right to it,” said the priest good- 
humouredly. “ And it may be the means of his 
conversion in the long-run.” 

“ Ah, yes!” said Frances eagerly. “I hardly 
thought of that. There have been cases, have there 

not, where the possession of a precious relic ” 

She stopped short, scarcely knowing why. “At 
any rate, we can pray for him,” she added in a lower 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


77 

tone, “ that lie may some day become a member of 
tbe one true Church.” 

It may he as well to say here, once and for all, 
that Frances Lisle’s hopes were never realized. 
Gideon Blake was not converted to Roman Cathol- 
icism at any period of his life* His creed, such as 
it was, was fashioned on very different lines ; hut 
the important thing in this interview between him- 
self and Frances was the formation of a subtle bond 
of sympathy which outlived all divergencies of 
creed. 

While Frances and her uncle were swiftly and 
luxuriously conveyed to their abode, Gideon, with a 
strange sense of tingling confusion, made his way 
through the darkness to Obed Pilcher’s little house 
beside the river. There was a side road or lane off 
the Market Place, which brought him to its door. 
It was badly lighted, but it was better than the 
other ways of approach — the river path on the one 
side, or the fields upon the other. In summer the 
situation was delightful: the gleaming river just 
outside the garden palings, the fragrant meadows 
stretching away into the distance, the town so near, 
and yet almost out of sight. But in winter ! For 


78 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


the first time Gideon had a doubt. The fields were 
full of mist, and he could hear the river lapping up 
to the very palings of his garden. He remembered 
that he had seen the meadows under water many a 
time, and he wondered, a little humorously, 
whether Emmy would dislike the darkness and the 
damp. 

He had almost to feel his way up the garden- 
path to the green door. The house was little more 
than a cottage, but a pretty cottage, with creeping 
plants growing over the brickwork, and a little 
porch in front. The garden was full of sweetest 
old-fashioned flowers in the summer-time, and 
shaded by tall poplars and a great beech-tree. But 
now the wind whistled in the bare branches, and 
the garden-beds were desolate. Gideon shivered as 
he pushed open the door. 

Obed Pilcher came out to meet him. He had 
been sitting in the kitchen with his pipe. The 
front parlour had been refurnished for Emmy’s use, 
and he would not desecrate it with smoke. His 
weather-beaten face beamed with smiles when he 
saw Gideon, but the smiles were succeeded by a 
look of anxiety. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


79 


“ Why, Gideon,” he said, “ thou’rt wet through, 
lad ! Thee shouldn’t be out when it siles down o’ 
rain like this — on th’ neet afore th’ wedding, 
too ! ” 

“I’m all right,” said Gideon, shaking himself 
like a big dog. “ I’ll sit by the fire a bit, and take 
a drop of whisky if you’ve any to give me, and I 
shall be all right.” 

“ Come on, then,” said Obed. 

He led the way into the clean, red-bricked, yel- 
low-walled kitchen, and stirred up the fire, until its 
flames were reflected in every brightly-burnished 
tin or plate that stood upon the dresser shelves. 
Gideon took off his coat and boots, and sat down to 
dry himself in silence. Obed mixed him a stiff 
glass of hot whisky-and-water, with the view of 
warming and cheering the intending bridegroom. 
But he wondered a little when he saw Gideon toss 
it off ; he had not often seen “ the lad ” touch any- 
thing stronger than water. It suddenly crossed the 
old man’s mind that it would be a terrible thing if 
Gideon, with his fierce temper and great physical 
strength, should at any time “ take to drink.” 

Some time elapsed before the young man spoke. 


80 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


He roused himself to glance round the kitchen and 
to say, rather hesitatingly : 

“ Will she like it, do you think ? ” 

u Emmy ? She’ll be a fool if she don’t ! ” said 
Uncle Obed. 

“I’d like to look at the parlour again,” said 
Gideon. 

He took up a candle, and went in his stockinged 
feet down the little passage to the sitting-room, with 
old Obed after him. Both men religiously left their 
pipes behind. 

The sitting-room was furnished according to the 
dictates of Casterby taste at that time. It had a 
Kidderminster carpet, with red and white flowers 
on a green ground, a “ suite ” of furniture of walnut 
and green damask, green curtains to match, and stiff 
lace ones inside them, partially concealing the new 
Venetian blinds. There was a gilt-framed mirror 
over the marble mantelpiece, and some oleographs 
on the walls. Emmy’s smart bookcase and cottage 
piano also helped to fill the room, and white anti- 
macassars abounded in legion. It was a stiff, inar- 
tistic, glaring little room, with its white and gold 
wall-paper, and its ornaments of green glass vases, 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


81 


with gilt snakes round their stems ; hut to Gideon, 
who knew no better, it was like a shrine. 

“ It’s a real lady’s room,” said Obed admiringly. 

“ Ay, hut it’s not near good enough for her,” 
Gideon replied. He walked round the room, touch- 
ing a cushion here, an antimacassar there, with a 
caressing hand. “ It’s as much as I can do,” he 
said in a low tone; “but when I get on in the 
world, Uncle Obed, I’ll make a palace for her. I’d 
like a house like the Squire’s, with all those paint- 
ings and carvings that I’ve seen in the hall when I 
went with father ; they’re much prettier, of course, 
than anything I could get for Emmy, but I suppose 
they cost a lot of money. I should like her to have 
everything of the best.” 

“ Eh, lad, you’ll get all you want in time,” said 
his uncle. 

“ 'Well, I hope so, if I work hard. I mean to 
work hard — for her sake; and yours too, Uncle 
Obed. But for you, I mightn’t have a home to 
give her— a nest for the bird. We shall be very 
happy here, Emmy and I.” 

There was a wistful tone in his voice. It was 
almost as though he were answering some objection 


82 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


advanced by another voice — disposing of scruples, 
as if he were called upon to defend himself. Obed 
grunted, and made no other answer; he did not 
understand the mood. 

“ I’m going to turn over a new leaf when I’m 
married,” said Gideon, pacing about the room. 
“ I’ve thought it over a good many times. I told 
Emmy so — at least, I tried to tell her. She knows 
so little of the world that, of course, she could not 
exactly understand ; but she will be glad to think 
of it by and by. I think I’ll go to church on Sun- 
day mornings, Uncle Obed, and sit with Emmy. 
It’s all very well to loaf about in the fields of a 
Sunday, smoking and enjoying one’s self ; but it 
isn’t quite the thing for a married man, is it ? 

And, besides, after a time there may be Well, 

anyhow, I shall be a different man when Emmy’s 
here.” 

“ Lord bless thee, lad ! ” said the old man, 
“ I doan’t knaw about Emmy ; but I haven’t much 
fear for thee.” 


IY. 

“ Passing the love of woman.” 

“You shall not go,” said Gideon. 

“ I shall go if I like,” Emmy cried out angrily. 

There was a pause. Husband and wife faced 
each other with an ugly look in their eyes. Emmy 
was scarlet with wrath; but Gideon was deadly 
white. 

He spoke at last, in a low but distinct tone. 

“ I’m your husband — and your master. I for- 
bid you to go.” 

She laughed mockingly. 

“ I should like to know how you can prevent 
me. I shall do just as I choose. Master indeed ! 
Do you think I am going to be a slave ? But it is 
just what I might have expected. Everybody 
warned me against your awful, abominable temper. 
Everybody told me that I had a very small chance 
of happiness. And I have had none at all. You 

83 


84 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


have made me miserable — miserable / and I wisb I 
had never married yon ! ” 

“ You needn’t say that in front of the hoy,” 
said Gideon with some difficulty. But Emmy was 
not to be stayed. 

“ Oh, indeed ! The boy is to be considered be- 
fore me, is he ? I only wish he were old enough to 
understand what a tyrant his father is. Perhaps, 
when he is grown up, I shall have somebody to 
defend me ” 

“ You don’t need defence — your tongue’s 
enough. Do as you please ; but you shall not take 
the boy with you. John, come here.” 

Gideon held out his hand to a little fellow of 
three years old, who stood against the wall with 
stiff white petticoats outspread, and hands behind 
his back, a puzzled, uncomprehending spectator of 
the scene. Some instinct of affection for his old 
dream had made the father name his child John 
Gideon, after the long-dead owner of the breviary. 
Emmy had been very angry about the name. The 
baby had been baptized in a hurry while the 
mother was ill, and she had meant him to be named 
Reginald Arthur. She now called the boy Johnny 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


85 


or Jacky ; but Gideon seldom called liim anything 
but John, which seemed somewhat solemn and 
inapplicable to the fair little fellow, with dark 
eyes and curls of gold, sturdy and chubby as 
he was. 

“Come here, John,” Gideon repeated, and the 
boy ran towards him and hid his face against his 
father’s knee. He was a sensitive child, and quiv- 
ered all over when he heard his mother’s passionate 
voice. 

“It’s always the same! You always interfere 
between me and any little pleasure I may be going 
to have. Why shouldn’t I go out on the river ? 
Why shouldn’t I take Jacky ? If you are so dull 
and stupid as not to want any amusement yourself, 
you need not prevent me from having any.” 

Her voice was shrill, her face red from excite- 
ment ; her hair was loosened and hung half down 
her back. Gideon looked at her unemotionally, 
and wondered for a moment where her prettiness 
had gone. Her skin had lost its delicacy, and her 
dress was untidy. She hardly looked like the 
Emmy Enderby who had won Gideon’s heart. 

As for him, he was less altered than his wife, 


86 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


and the alteration was, in some respects, for the 
better. He was still spare and sinewy; but his 
shoulders had broadened, and his frame filled out, 
and his aspect was that of a more prosperous man 
than in days of old. His shock of black hair still 
made his face look heavy, and his brows were bent 
in a perpetual frown ; but his features and expres- 
sion had gained definiteness, and there was less sul- 
len gloom in his bearing than in liis boyhood. But 
the added brightness in his life did not come from 
Emmy — only from Emmy’s child. 

The cause of dispute was simple. In the four 
and a half years that had elapsed since Gideon’s 
marriage, the Saturday evening excursions down 
the river in Mortlock’s barge had fallen greatly into 
disrepute. Cases of drunkenness were never rare, 
and some serious scandals owed their origin to these 
Saturday merry-makings. Casterby was not strict 
in its views ; but it rose up and drew the fine some- 
where, now and then, and it had decreed that Mort- 
lock’s barge, at a shilling a head, was not respecta- 
ble. But Mrs. Gideon Blake greatly resented this 
deprivation of her privileges, and had announced 
her intention of going to the Three Bridges (the 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


87 


name of a very popular old inn at some distance 
down the river), with some of her friends, on the 
first Saturday in July. Mr. Fred Chiltern, with 
his “ young lady”; Carry Blake, now seventeen 
and the biggest flirt in Casterby ; and several other 
young people, were to be of the party— to which, 
moreover, Emmy had determined to take her little 
boy. And then Gideon had put down his foot, and 
declared that she should not go. 

It was Saturday afternoon when he first realized 
what his wife intended to do. And he had stub- 
bornly and imperiously ordered her to take off her 
finery and remain at home. The boat was timed to 
start at five, and Gideon’s interference took place 
at four o’clock, an hour late enough to give his wife 
some cause for vexation. She was just on the point 
of beginning to dress for the jaunt when he in- 
terfered. 

“ John shall not go,” said the father, putting his 
hand on the boy’s head. “ If for no other reason, 
the weather’s damp, and the boy’s chest is weak, 
and he’s not fit to be kept up till eleven o’clock. I 
won’t have it. Do as you like yourself, but you 
shall not take John.” 


88 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


“I know that you are fonder of John than you 
are of me,” said Emmy spitefully. 

Gideon’s dark eyes glowed ; he raised them to 
her face with a strange expression, but lowered 
them almost immediately. 

“ Am I ? ” he said. 

“ Yes, you are, and you know it. Perhaps you’d 
like me to leave you altogether, and then you and 
Jacky and Uncle Obed could have the place to 
yourselves. You’d like that, wouldn’t you ? ” 

If Gideon’s eyes had glowed before, they blazed 
now. He put John away from him, and took a 
step towards his wife, with livid face and threaten- 
ing hand. He had no intention of striking her, but 
he scarcely knew what he did. 

“ Leave me ? ” he said. “ Leave me ? ” 

He said nothing more, but he seized her by the 
shoulder, and Emmy cowered and shrieked under 
the iron grip of his strong hand. 

“ Gideon, don’t ! You hurt me ! ” 

“Hurt you!” he exclaimed violently. “Do 
you never hurt me?” 

The force of his hand shook her slight form, 
and although he had no intention of injuring her, 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


89 


the very suddenness with which he removed his 
grasp sent her backward against the wall breath- 
less and sobbing with fear. He walked straight out 
of the room and out of the house, almost beside 
himself with pain and passion, little heeding the 
hysterical cry which his wife sent after him — a cry 
that declared herself all the more determined to 
have her own way. He was blind and deaf with 
anger, and with something else which was not 
anger, but bitterness and regret and sickening dis- 
appointment. He loved Emmy still, but it had 
become very plain to him of late that she cared 
little about him. 

He did not stop to consider whether or not she 
would obey him. He supposed that she would go 
her own way, leaving the child in the care of the 
maid servant. Uncle Obed would be in presently, 
and he was always glad to look after little John. 
Gideon turned into the fields, where, by a footpath, 
he could make his way to the wood-yard in Dane 
Street, and betook himself to the loft where he had 
spent so many idle hours in days gone by. 

It was still his place of refuge in moments 
when he wanted to be alone. He flung himself 


90 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


down on the bench before the window, and rested 
his chin in his hands. He did not look at the 
glowing landscape, or fall into his old habit of 
dreams. He had lost the tendency to that side 
of life. His mind was absorbed by the consid- 
eration of things as they were how. 

For some months his marriage had seemed 
perfectly satisfactory. Emmy had grumbled more 
or less at the quietness of her life, at the damp- 
ness of the house, at the smallness of her hus- 
band’s income, but the complaints had not meant 
unhappiness. Emmy was one of the women who 
always grumbled. She felt herself personally 
injured if anyone in her own class of life had 
a finer house, a more expensive gown than her- 
self ; it seemed to her that Providence was 
treating her shabbily. The best things, as far 
as she knew them, were hers by right, and when 
they were not showered into her lap, somebody 
— it might be the Governor of the world, or it 
might be only her husband, but somebody — was 
to blame. When she married, her views of what 
was due to her were limited by ignorance. Un- 
fortunately, every month and every year increased 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


91 


her knowledge of the various pleasures and lux- 
uries attainable in this world, and her opportu- 
nities of achieving them — not to speak of her 
husband’s income — did not increase in a like 
ratio. 

At first Gideon took no notice." He was not 
by nature inclined to notice small things, and 
his wife’s complaints were mere pin-pricks. After 
John’s birth, however, they became more shrill 
and insistent, and he began to be vaguely an- 
noyed by them. But there was no serious quarrel 
until he discovered that her fondness for dress 
had involved her deeply in debt, and that he 
was responsible for far more than he knew how 
to pay. Then he spoke angrily, and drove his 
wife into a hysterical fit of weeping, which 
frightened him and made him for the moment 
amenable to her slightest wish. But when there 
came to be no novelty about her hysterical fits, 
and when the debts, and the wants, and the ill- 
temper went on increasing, then Gideon came 
to the point of wondering whether his marriage 
was a happy one or not. Now there was no 
doubt about the matter ; Emmy had avowed 


92 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


herself unhappy, and he was sounding the depths 
of a misery such as he had never known before. 

Throughout it all, he loved her. Even when 
she complained and grumbled and fretted, his 
thoughts were tender towards her. He was not 
the man to give love once and take it back 
again. Such changes of mind belong to men of 
shallower nature than Gideon Blake’s. It never 
seemed really possible for him to change. 

Nevertheless, as he had a somewhat violent 
and sullen temper, and was not accustomed to 
self-control, he very often behaved roughly and 
harshly towards her, and alienated her volatile 
affections from him by a manner which effec- 
tually masked the true feeling of his heart. A 
less frivolous woman might have understood him 
better ; but Emmy was convinced by this time 
that he did not care for her, that he was “a 
bear” and “a brute,” and she seemed to de- 
light in opposing his wishes and irritating his 
temper. He had no longer any illusions on the 
subject ; he believed her dislike of him to be 
even more deeply rooted than it was. For it 
would have been hard for him to realize, well 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


93 


as lie knew her, that a few judiciously-chosen 
presents — a silk dress or two, a gold chain, a 
pretty bracelet — would have restored to him all 
the love of which her heart was capable. 

In the quiet of his lonely rooms he almost 
wished that he had never married.. He remem- 
bered the days when he could at least come and 
go at will, could shut himself away from sting- 
ing speeches and undeserved reproaches, could 
brood for hours over his own thoughts and shape 
strange figures out of carven wood at the same 
time, absorbed partly in his dreams and partly 
in the dear delight of creation. The instinct of 
the anchorite, the solitary, was strong in him. 
Bather than be tied for life to An uncongenial 
mate, he said to himself that he would sooner 
always be alone. 

But then, there was the child ! Compensation 
came in there. If he were alone in the world, 
he would not be the father of that round-faced 
fair-haired creature, with the fearless eyes and 
stubborn chin, so like yet so unlike his own. 
That fair, round, self-willed little lad belonged 
to him in heart and soul, if Emmy did not. 

r 


94 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


Gideon worshipped him, without measuring the 
strength of his love. The world was not a wil- 
derness while Johnny was in existence. There 
was always somebody to look for Gideon’s com- 
ing — somebody to whom the sound of his step 
brought joy. Marriage was not entirely a fail- 
ure, since it had put baby John into his arms. 

Yaguely comforted at last, he rose up to go 
to his home. After all, Uncle Obed and John 
would be there. Emmy would have gone to her 
noisy, disreputable picnic, and would not be 
back till late in the evening. It did not occur 
to Gideon that he might have gone with her. 
Such companionship of husband and wife was 
not customary; and his detestation of the per- 
sons whom she called friends was too complete 
to be concealed. He could not possibly have 
gone with her, and simulated ordinary politeness. 

Silence and loneliness had restored his com- 
posure. As he walked with long strides across the 
fields, he reflected that Emmy would be out, and 
that he and J ohn and Uncle Obed would have 
tea by themselves. He took the trouble to turn 
into the main street and buy some “goodies” for 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


95 


John. They would sit on the bench in the garden 
after tea, and John should not go to bed till 
ten. In this unauthorized way he would find 
consolation for Emmy’s absence, for Emmy’s ill- 
temper, for Emmy’s want of love. 

But when he neared his own house, he was 
struck by something unusual in its appearance, 
some sort of stir and excitement on the river-bank. 
Two or three persons were hanging over the pal- 
ings, a small boat was moored to the little landing- 
stage just outside the garden, the front-door stood 
wide open, and there were strange trails of water 
on the garden-path and the stone flags at the 
door. And surely two or three people were stand- 
ing in the passage. Was one of them the doctor? 
A qualm of fear passed through Gideon’s mind 
as he quickened his steps in drawing near. He 
hardly knew how he got through the gate or ar- 
rived at last at the door, where his strained eyes 
and paling face put the question which his lips 
refused to ask. 

“ Don’t be alarmed, he is quite safe,” were the 
first words he heard. Who said them ? He knew 
the sweet, clear voice, but there was a mist before 


96 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


his eyes. It was Frances Lisle who laid her hand 
npon his arm. 

“Your little boy met with an accident; he fell 
into the water, Mr. Blake ; bnt he was pnlled out 
almost immediately, and I think he will be none 
the worse for it.” 

“ Where is he ? where is he ? ” stammered Gid- 
eon, with wild eyes. 

“ He is in bed, and his mother is upstairs with 
him,” said Frances soothingly. “ Here is the doc- 
tor; you can ask him for yourself.” 

Why was she here? Even at that moment a 
flash of wonder passed through Gideon’s brain. 
But he had not time to ask the question. He 
would have made an immediate rush to the stairs, 
had not the way been blocked by the doctor — a 
burly figure, filling up the width of the little 
passage and putting out a firm white hand to arrest 
the young man’s steps. 

“Come, Gideon, you needn’t worry yourself. 
The little lad’s in bed and only needs to be kept 
quiet. His mother is with him : I’ve told her to 
stay until he is asleep.” 

“ He’ll go to sleep quicker with me than 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


97 


with her ; he always does,” said Gideon 
sharply. 

“Nonsense! You are not to go up: do you 
hear ? ” 

“He is hurt — and you won’t tell me, is that 
it ? ” asked the young man, in a tone “which, though 
low, was so fierce that Frances involuntarily 
started. 

“ Nothing of the kind, don’t be a fool ! ” said 
the doctor, who had known Gideon all his life 
and could afford to be peremptory with him ; “ it 
is only that the child has had a ducking and I 
want him to get to sleep as quickly and as quietly 
as possible, otherwise he may have a touch of fever. 
Now, mind, I forbid more than one person in his 
room for the present.” 

“ Then you may get Emmy away,” said Gideon 
doggedly; “for I shall sit by the child.” 

The doctor elevated his eyebrows and glanced 
at Miss Lisle, as if to call her to his assistance; 
and Frances, thus appealed to, threw herself into 
the breach. 

“ I want very much to tell you how it hap- 
pened, Mr. Blake,” she said, “if you can spare 


98 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


me a minute or two before you go upstairs. I 
saw the accident myself, and it was a friend of 
mine — a gentleman who is visiting us just now — 
who took him out of the water.” 

“ Yes, come in and hear all about it,” said 
the doctor genially, pushing Gideon before him 
towards the door of the little parlour. “ What 
are you thinking of, Gideon, not to ask Miss Lisle 
to sit down ? The gentleman — Captain Hamil- 
ton, is it not? — is upstairs, changing his clothes 
for some of yours, I believe. Obed is looking 
after him.” 

In some confusion, Gideon pushed open the 
door of the sitting-room, and Frances entered it, 
not without curiosity to see what the sitting-room 
of this strange, dark-eyed young man and his 
pretty wife was like. She was disappointed if she 
expected to find any trace of superior tastes or 
aspirations. The green damask and the flowery 
carpet were horrible in her eyes ; the gilt looking- 
glass and the oleographs were abominations. And 
worse than all was the appearance of the girl, 
who rose in some embarrassment from the couch 
when Frances entered ; for she was even more 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


99 


vulgar-looking than the room, and yet she was 
introduced by the doctor as “ my friend Gideon’s 
sister, Miss Carry Blake.” 

Frances, whose tastes, although simple, were 
extremely refined, was for a moment revolted by 
the aspect of the room and of the girl ; then her 
kindlier instincts came into play. It was not, 
perhaps, Gideon’s fault, it was the fault of his 
friends, of his wife, probably, that the room was 
hideous. And she could not help liking him for 
the anxiety which he displayed about his boy. 
She gave her little account of the disaster, look- 
ing straight at him so as to avoid the sight of 
the antimacassars and oleographs, and of Carry, 
with her earrings and her feathers, on the 
sofa. 

“ I was on the river in a small boat with my 
brother and Captain Hamilton,” she said. “We 
were quite at the side, among some rushes, when 
we saw a big boat — a sort of barge — coming 
up ” 

“ Mortlock’s barge,” said the doctor, with a nod. 

Gideon set his teeth. 

“We waited, so as to be out of the way of the 


100 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


wash while they went by,” continued Frances. 
“ Everyone seemed to be very merry on board, and 
just when they passed us, I noticed a little boy 
clambering about — I think he was trying to see how 
far he could lean over the side. I called out — for 
nobody seemed to be looking after him — and at 
that moment he overbalanced himself and fell into 
the water.” 

“ Pm sure,” said Miss Carry volubly from the 
sofa, “ we had only turned our heads away just for 
a minute ; we had been looking after him as care- 
fully as possible, Gideon, both Emmy and me, and 
if we had told him once to come away from the 
side, we had told him a dozen times ; but Jacky 
was always a naughty boy ” 

She was suddenly met by such a black look from 
Gideon that she was awed into silence. 

“Who took him out of the water?” said her 
brother, in a half -stifled voice. 

Miss Lisle was observed to colour as she re- 
plied : 

“Captain Hamilton jumped into the water di- 
rectly, and my brother rowed to the place and took 
him into the boat. Then we found out to whom he 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


101 


belonged, and brought him home, and Mrs. Blake 
and some of her friends came back too.” 

“ Your uncle was here,” said Dr. Miller, in his 
hearty voice, “ and he knew exactly what to do — 
had the boy in a hot bath in no time, and in bed 
with hot blankets. There was scarcely any need 
for me, but Mr. Gerald Lisle was so kind as to fetch 
me, and I’m glad, Gideon, that I can’t be of any 
use — ha, ha ! ” 

The doctor’s genial laugh dispelled the gloom 
which seemed to have settled on the party. Gideon 
said something about his gratitude to Captain Ham- 
ilton, and asked if he should go upstairs and see 
that his guest had all he required But footsteps 
were at that moment heard on the stairs, and Obed 
Pilcher appeared, ushering Captain Hamilton into 
the room. 

Gideon was usually slow of speech, but grati- 
tude was warm at his heart just then, and made it 
easy for him to utter a few words of thanks. Miss 
Lisle’s friend received them with offhand good- 
humour, as if he were in the habit of saving lives 
every day and thought nothing of the occurrence. 
He had found a suit of Gideon’s flannels to fit 


102 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


him tolerably well, for he was a tall man, though of 
slighter build than Blake’s. His age was thirty- 
five, but he looked at least five years older ; the 
crow’s feet were thick round his eyes, and his hair 
was growing a little thin at the temples. He had a 
long nose, and a fair moustache ; in fact, he was 
not unlike the conventional hero of the novels in 
which Emmy Blake loved to revel ; and Carry, who 
had adopted many of her sister-in-law’s tastes, eyed 
him with open admiration. 

Young Gerald Lisle had, it seemed, gone for the 
carriage, which had been put up in Casterby while 
he and his sister took Captain Hamilton for a row 
on the river, and Frances was to wait until it came 
for her. There was a minute or two of awkward- 
ness : Gideon had nothing to say for himself, and 
Carry, although not particularly shy, was too busily 
engaged in studying Miss Lisle’s dress to have any 
time for conversation. 

She decided in her own mind that Miss Lisle 
was very badly dressed. Everyone knew that she 
had money, and persons with money ought to dress 
according to their position. She did not know ex- 
actly how she would have liked Miss Lisle to dress, 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


103 


but she was quite sure that simple brown holland 
was inappropriate, and so were the brown straw hat 
and brown ribbons and gauntleted yellow gloves. 
To say that this costume was excellently adapted 
for boating would not have satisfied Carry’s mind at 
all. ISTor did it occur to her that Miss Lisle was go- 
ing home to dress for dinner. In Carry Blake’s 
station people dressed for tea. She supposed that 
Miss Lisle would wear that brown holland all the 
evening, and in her eyes this was almost worse than 
a crime. She concluded in her own mind, with a 
contemptuous sniff, that Miss Lisle dressed in that 
funny way because she was a Roman Catholic, 
though the connection between brown holland and 
a religious faith might not be apparent at first 
sight. 

While the awkward pause still lasted, there 
came a rush as of flying skirts along the passage ; 
the door was opened hastily, and Mrs. Blake ap- 
peared. 

“He’s asleep, doctor — fast asleep,” she said 
breathlessly, “ and Kezia’s sitting with him ; but I 
felt I must come down just to say my thanks to the 
gentleman who rescued my child — my darling little 


104 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


Jacky! Oh, what should I have done if he had 
been drowned!” 

She had never looked prettier. The excitement 
of the afternoon had only brought a rose-flush to 
her cheeks ; her eyes swam witli tears, but the eye- 
lids were not reddened, and her rosy lips were 
parted in the most appealing of curves. Her 
golden hair stood up in natural waves and curls like 
an aureole round her fair brow, and with her slen- 
der hands outstretched, and her graceful form bent 
slightly forward in her impulsive burst of gratitude, 
she looked like a very incarnation of youth and 
loveliness. She was dressed in white muslin, which 
looked none the worse for the limpness caused by 
contact with John’s wet clothing. Captain Ham- 
ilton gazed at her with a dawning admiration which 
seemed mixed with amaze. He had, of course, seen 
the child’s mother previously, but, preoccupied by 
the condition of his soused garments, he had not 
realized the fact of her beauty. 

“ I am very glad I was able to be of some little 
assistance,” he said, becoming amiable all at once. 
He had just been remarking to himself that the 
whole thing was an infernal bore. It had not even 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


105 


the merit of recommending him in the eyes of any- 
body of importance ; Frances’s heart was won al- 
ready, and there was no need to attitudinize for her 
benefit. But it occurred to him now that it was 
rather pleasant to hear this pretty provincial little 
woman expressing her gratitude, and that she 
looked as if one might get some amusement out 
of her. In this dull place, Captain Hamilton told 
himself, even a carpenter’s wife might be amusing. 

“ He is quite right now, quite safe, isn’t he, Dr. 
Miller ? Oh, it was so good of you to jump into 
the water and save him, wasn’t it, Miss Lisle ? Oh, 
aren’t you quite proud of him ? ” 

Gideon felt, with a sudden twinge, that Emmy 
had said just the wrong thing. Why should Frances 
Lisle be proud of Captain Hamilton? He saw a 
deepening pink flush upon that cameo-like, pure 
face ; he saw her eyes cast down in momentary con- 
fusion, and he irritably wished to himself that 
Emmy’s tongue would not run so fast. She was 
quite happy, quite contented with what she had 
said ; evidently she thought she had said just the 
proper thing, but neither Miss Lisle nor Captain 
Hamilton looked quite pleased with the remark. 


106 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


Frances turned instinctively to Gideon, while 
Emmy pursued her conversation with the Captain 
and the doctor. The disturbed expression passed at 
once from her face as she spoke to him. 

“ What a dear little boy he is ! ” she said. 

The father’s eye gleamed. 

“ Yes, he’s a fine little chap,” he answered, sim- 
ply enough, but with evident satisfaction. 

“ And his name is John ? ” 

“ John Gideon — the name,” said Gideon shyly, 
“ of the man in the book.” 

“The man in the book?” Frances was mysti- 
fied for a moment, then she remembered, and spoke 
eagerly : “ Of course I know. I am glad you called 
the little boy after him.” 

“Nobody knows,” said Gideon, lowering his 
voice, and casting an involuntary glance of guilt 
towards Emmy. Frances laughed a little at the 
glance, but her heart warmed to the man. It struck 
her that he must be lonely, in spite of his environ- 
ment of friends and family. 

“ I have never forgotten him,” she said with an 
instinct of sympathy. “We all remember him 
every Sunday, and on All Souls’ Day.” 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


107 


“ It is rather a good thing, that,” said Gideon 
seriously. “ I think he wanted to be remembered, 
poor old chap ! ” 

Bemembrance was a different thing in his eyes 
from what it was in hers. But they came no nearer 
to a mutual understanding, because at that moment 
Miss Lisle’s carriage was announced, and the visitors 
rose to take leave. 

“I can’t express all I feel,” Emmy was saying, 
“and my husband can’t, either; but I hope you 
will not be offended with us if we say so little.” 

Captain Hamilton thought she had said a good 
deal, but he smiled and took instant advantage of 
Mrs. Blake’s apology. 

“ I shall be amply repaid if you will allow me to 
come and inquire after him some day. I love chil- 
dren, and I should like to make acquaintance with 
your fine little boy.” 

“ Oh, certainly ; come whenever you like,” cried 
Emmy in high delight. “We shall be always 
pleased to see you — always, I’m sure.” 

He bowed over her hand with an exaggeration 
of courtesy which struck Frances as mocking and 
unkind. 


108 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“ How could you make fun of Mrs. Blake ! ” she 
said to him afterwards, with a little reproach in 
her tone. 

“ You have such sharp eyes,” he answered laugh- 
ingly; “a little too sharp, sometimes, don’t you 
think ? Mrs. Blake liked it ; she thought it a hom- 
age to her beauty. "What a pretty woman she is ! ” 

“ Is she not lovely ! ” said Frances, with so 
much heartfelt warmth that Captain Hamilton was 
a trifle disappointed. He would have thought it 
more natural for Frances, who was comparatively 
plain, to depreciate Mrs. Blake’s good looks; and 
he said to himself impatiently that she was far too 
angelic for this wicked world, and that angelic 
women were a bore. 

Poor Frances felt herself far from angelic, being 
not free from miserable doubts of George Hamil- 
ton’s sincerity, and disposed to accuse him of pay- 
ing too much attention to every woman he came 
across. Even these ghosts of suspicion gave her 
an agony of pain and self-reproach. It seemed to 
her that she must herself he evil-minded and low- 
thouglited if she could even conceive the possibility 
of his doing wrong. Ordinarily she was a fairly 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


109 


shrewd and quick-witted little person, but her love 
for this man, George Hamilton, had strangely 
blinded her eyes. He had come, as she knew, to 
woo and win her ; there had never been any doubt 
about that. The match had been “ arranged,” be- 
cause she had money and he had debts (though this 
she did not know), and an old name to support, and 
she had agreed to the proposal with all her heart, in 
her own rather sober and serious way. Hamilton 
was of an order that she knew, and yet there was 
something novel and entrancing about him. To 
her mind, it was wonderful that he should want to 
marry her. She was very happy on the whole, but 
she was not always at rest. 

When the carriage drove away from the little 
house by the river, Gideon stood gravely at the 
door, and Emmy, beside him, sent nods and smiles 
after the departing guests. Carry Blake hovered in 
the background, rather curious as to the way in 
which her stepbrother was taking the occurrence ; 
and faithful Uncle Obed had stolen upstairs to the 
sleeping child. 

“ What will Gideon say ? ” Carry was asking 

herself, conscious of equal guilt with Emmy in hav- 
8 


110 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


ing taken tlie boy on the river against liis father’s 
will. 

But Gideon had no time to say anything. 

As soon as the carriage was out of sight, Emmy 
turned, glanced at his face, then, with a cry that 
was half a sob, half a laugh, threw herself into his 
arms. 

“ Oh, Gideon ! I was very naughty and disagree- 
able to you, but I’m really very sorry now — I am 
indeed. And our poor little Jacky ! he might have 
been drowned. Oh, it was dreadful ! ” 

She hid her face on his shoulder and burst into 
tears, genuine enough, although caused partly by 
excitement, agitation, and a little fear. Gideon put 
up his hand and stroked her hair. He had no 
words, except a murmur of affection and solicitude. 
He was only too thankful that Emmy was appar- 
ently repentant of her escapade. 

“ Oh, I suffered fearfully ! ” said Mrs. Blake, at 
last drying her eyes. “ To see the darling sink in 
the water — my nerves got such a shock that I don’t 
think I shall get over it for a month ! I screamed, 
did I not, Carry ? ” — in a tone of conscious merit. 
“ I screamed at the top of my voice.” 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


Ill 


“Yes, you did; and so did I,” said Carry tri- 
umphantly. “And that was what made Captain 
Hamilton look round. If he hadn’t been there, I 
am sure Jacky would have been drowned.” 

It was Gideon who frowned and flinched at the 
word. Emmy was too deeply interested in the de- 
tails of the event that had really occurred to be 
impressed by a figment of the imagination. She 
did not see, as Gideon saw, in his mind’s eye, a 
picture of little John lying cold and dripping in 
someone’s arms, carried back dead to the cottage, 
where he had made the brightness of his father’s 
life. The ghastliness of it turned Gideon absolutely 
sick. But Carry and Emmy prattled on undis- 
turbed. 

“ Did no one on board try to save him ? ” he in- 
quired grimly. 

Emmy looked at her sister-in-law. It was Carry 
who replied. 

“Hot a single one. Mr. Chiltern went quite 
white and green, and said that he couldn’t swim. 
An d nobody else said anything. Oh! Johnny 
would have been drowned, that’s certain, if Cap- 
tain Hamilton had not been there.” 


112 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“ You see wliat a fine set of fellows your friends 
are,” said Gideon, a little grimly. 

Emmy tossed her head. 

“ They are as good as other people, I suppose. 
I never heard that you could swim yourself,” she 
said. 

“ Should you have gone in after him if you had 
been there, Gid ? ” said Carry, her eyes gleaming. 
“ I suppose you would ; but, you see, the fellows on 
the boat weren’t his father, so ” 

“ Do let us hear no more about it,” said Gideon, 
with sudden irritation. “ Tell Keziah to get the 
tea, for goodness’ sake ; and be thankful that the 
boy is alive.” 

“You needn't speak so cross,” said Emmy; but 
she felt the need of some pacification, and went into 
the kitchen to hasten preparations for the evening 
meal. Gideon leaned against the window and 
looked out into the garden ; while Carry, perched 
on the music-stool, swung her feet and regarded 
him inquisitively. She did not understand her 
step-brother at all. 

“Who is Captain Hamilton?” he asked pres- 
ently. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


113 


“Oh! don’t you know? He is to marry that 
Miss Frances Lisle who was here to-day. It’s all 
for her money — everybody says so; because she’s 
quite plain, and he’s such a splendid -looking gentle- 
man.” 

“ Miss Lisle plain ? ” said Gideon, in a puzzled 
voice. 

“ Why, of course she is plain, Gideon ! Don’t 
you know a plain person from a pretty one ? Well, 
I must say that I think Emmy is thrown away on 
you ! Look here, Emmy, he thinks Miss Lisle 
pretty — Miss Lisle ! ” 

“ I never said so,” Gideon averred, in the old 
irritated voice. “ I don’t know whether she is 
pretty or plain. She has what people call — a nice 
face, I believe.” 

Emmy laughed derisively. 

“Gideon has no taste,” she said. “Do you 
know, he can’t bear that pink and blue dress of 
mine that I got at Hull ! They told me it was an 
exact copy of a French costume, and yet he doesn’t 
care for it. I never think anything of Gideon’s 
taste now.” 

“Why has this Miss Lisle got money, if her 


114 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


sisters have not ? ” said Gideon, disregarding these 
accusations. “You know everything, Carry: tell 
me that.” 

The slight satire was quite lost upon Carry. 

“ Everybody knows,” she said, “ except you ; 
and I sometimes think you are blind and deaf, 
Gideon. It was her old aunt and godmother who 
left her a fortune. It all came into her hands when 
she was twenty-one, and she is quite independent. 
She is twenty-three now. Some people expected 
her to give her money to the Church, or set up a 
hospital or something ; but she wasn’t quite so silly 
as that. She’s going to marry Captain Hamilton, 
and, as he’s over head and ears in debt, he will be 
glad of the money.” 

“ She’s a lucky girl,” said Emmy wistfully. 

Gideon turned to her with a sharp gesture of 
dissent. 

“ The luck’s on his side,” he said. 

The girls laughed scornfully to each other ; they 
almost thought that Gideon was a little mad at 
times. 

Later in the evening, when Carry had gone 
home and he was in the garden smoking a pipe, 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


115 


Emmy stole out to him in a gentler mood, and 
twined her hand in his arm. 

“ I won’t go on the barge again, Gideon,” she 
said softly. 

“ That’s right.” 

“ I shall always hate it now. Think what it 
would have been for me if Jacky had been drowned ? 
It would have been terrible. And I could not help 
thinking when I saw him fall, 6 What will Gideon 
say?’ Gideon,” pressing a little closer to him, 
66 what should we have done ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Gideon brokenly ; “ don’t 
talk of it, Emmy.” 

“ I believe you would never have forgiven me,” 
she said, with a petulant little laugh, in which there 
was the echo of a sob. 

“ I don’t suppose I ever should,” said Gideon. 

He could not understand why she wrenched her 
hand out of his arm and ran back to the house 
without another word. He watched her slim white 
figure in the moonlight, and wondered a little at 
women’s vagaries. He did not know that he had 
brought tears of real pain and passion to Emmy’s 
eyes. 


116 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“ He does not care one bit about me,” she said 
to herself, as she began to undress herself in the 
semi-darkness of her room, where John lay asleep 
in his crib. “ He cares only for the child.” 

She was wrong ; Gideon loved her too, but per- 
haps at that moment the love of his child came first. 


V. 

“ Love seeketh but itself to please.” 

“ I always said so,” remarked Mrs. Blake, 
senior, in her most tragic tones. “ I always told 
you that Enderbys was a poor lot, Gideon ; hut you 
were so set on marrying Emmy Enderby, that there 
was no holding you back, and now ” 

She paused significantly, and her silence said 
more than words. Any other woman would per- 
haps have shrunk from exciting the wrath that was 
plainly to he seen in Gideon’s dark face, but Mrs. 
Blake was not wanting in courage. And she had 
that curious insensibility to the pain of others which 
comes from absolute want of sympathy. 

She was sitting in the parlour of Riverside Cot- 
tage on an August evening. Bolt upright on a 
high chair, her ample silk skirts spread out carefully 
on each side of her, she looked a worthy occupant 
of the bourgeois little room, where the green “ rep n 

117 


118 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


was growing soiled and frayed, and the lilies and 
roses of the carpet were beginning to merge their 
violent contrasts of colour in a decent obscurity. 
Mrs. Blake had “ come to call,” and she had come 
on a Saturday evening, when she had expected, she 
said somewhat viciously, “to find Mrs. Gideon at 
home.” 

Obed was in the garden, performing his 
favourite function of nurse and caretaker to little 
John, and Emmy was out. It was this fact that 
had put Mrs. Blake out of temper. She was 
impelled to vent her anger in spiteful words against 
the girl, although she knew that Gideon was not 
likely to be a very patient listener. He stood in 
what was a favourite attitude with him : leaning 
against the window-frame, looking out into the 
garden. It was a careless, lounging pose, but as 
Mrs. Blake spoke she might have noticed that he 
gradually gathered himself up a little, and that the 
hand which had been hanging loosely at his side 
clenched itself. Signs of danger there, if Mrs. 
Blake had only understood. 

“Well?” said Gideon, as she paused. “And 
now — what then ? ” 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


119 


“ You may well say ‘ What then ? 5 ” said Mrs. 
Blake, pursing np her lips. “Indeed, I don’t 
know what is to become of you all ; and my heart 
aches when I look at that poor child of yonrs and 
think how he is to be brought up with such parents. 
I hear that you never send him to Sunday-school, 
and that he does not come to church. I don’t 
know how you expect him to grow up respect- 
able.” 

“He’s too young for church,” said Gideon 
shortly. “ He generally goes for a walk with me 
on Sundays. Emmy goes to church ; Emmy and 
Uncle Obed do the religion of the family.” 

“ Ah Emmy — Emmy ! ” said Mrs. Blake, with a 
portentous sigh. “Hot much religion about her , 
I’m afraid. Perhaps it would be better if she had 
a little more.” 

“ Look here,” said Gideon suddenly, and with 
violence, “what do you mean by talking about 
Emmy in that tone? If you’ve anything to say, 
say it and be done with it. You seem rather to 
forget that Emmy’s my wife.” 

“Ah, poor thing! yes. I’m sorry for you, 
Gideon. I should have wished you a good wife, I 


120 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


should indeed : for the unbelieving husband may be 
sanctified by the believing wife ” 

“ Are you insinuating that Emmy is not a good 
wife ? ” said Gideon sternly. 

“ Insinuating ? What a long word ! ” said Mrs. 
Blake, with acidulated playfulness. “ Ho, I am not 
insinuating anything, or, at least, not more than 
everyone is saying, and I am not responsible, I 
hope, for what other people say.” 

“What do they say?” 

He left the window -frame and looked at her, 
his face paling beneath its summer tan, his breath 
coming faster than usual. Mrs. Blake was proud 
of having made such an impression. Her big 
teeth gleamed and gave her a hungry look as she 
replied : 

“ They talk, Gideon — of course they talk. 
Wlien a young wife neglects her home and her 
husband ” 

“ It will be time enough to talk of her neglect- 
ing me when I complain.” 

“Of course. And it is very forbearing of 
you not to complain more than you do. I’m 
sure I never gave you credit, Gideon, for such 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


121 


patience. But I believe you were fond of 
Emmy ” 

44 Were ! ” 

The exclamation was so indignant, the tone so 
full of scorn and anger, that even Mrs. Blake felt 
a little thrill of alarm. 

“Well, you are fond of her, then, if you like 
that better. There is such a thing as being weak 
and blind in one’s fondness, but I don’t wish to 
6 insinuate ’ anything, as you call it. I’m not one 
to make mischief. Ever since I was a girl I’ve 
taken for my motto the text 4 Blessed are the peace- 
makers.’ ” 

44 You make peace in a damned extraordinary 
way,” said Gideon, flaming into sudden rage. 44 I’d 
as soon be without it, for my part.” 

44 Oh, if you mean to swear at me, Gideon,” 
said Mrs. Blake, drawing herself up with dignity, 
44 1 can only say that I shall never set foot in your 
house again. I am not accustomed to be sworn 
at. It’s a thing your father never did, and where 
you learned it I am sure I cannot tell; and my 
own father was a most respectable man, and 
wouldn’t have sullied his lips with a bad word, 


122 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


more especially to a lady and one that had come to 
call and was anxious for his soul’s good. Which 
is what I have always been, although from the 
very first moment that I entered your father’s 
house you took a grudge against me — and showed 
it. But I hope I am a Christian woman, and 
always ready to do you a good turn when it comes 
in my way.” 

This long speech gave Gideon time in which 
to recover himself. He fell back against the win- 
dow-frame and folded his arms. His face was in 
shadow, but his voice had grown calm again when 
he made answer: 

“ I beg your pardon. I did not mean to hurt 
your feelings, I am sure. But you must see” — 
with a little gathering vehemence — “that a man 
doesn’t like to be told that his wife neglects him 
or anything of that kind. It’s not likely.” 

“Ho, indeed, it’s not likely that one always 
cares to hear the truth,” said Mrs. Blake sharply ; 
“ but it may be your friends’ duty to let you know 
it, for all that. In plain words, Gideon, your 
wife gads about too much, and I should advise 
you to look after her.” 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


123 


“Is that what you came to say?” asked Gid- 
eon, who was at a white heat. 

“Well, I came to say a word to Emmy, and 
that’s the truth. I should have said a deal more 
to her than I’ve said to you, Gideon. But as 
Emmy’s as usual out and about, flaunting all over 
the town ” 

“ Take care what you say,” cried the young 
man fiercely. 

“ Keally, Gideon,” said Mrs. Blake, shaking out 
her silk skirts as she rose to go, “ I don’t see 
that I’ve said anything that calls for that tone of 
voice. I don’t approve of so much gadding about, 
of course; but I have not said, as I might have 
said, that when it comes to strolls by the river 
with that Captain Hamilton up at the Park ” 

She ceased suddenly : Gideon’s hand was on 
her arm, his dark eyes were flashing fire. His 
voice was so husky that she could hardly recognise 
it as that of her step-son. 

“ Dare to say anything against my wife,” he 
said in a choking whisper, “ dare to breathe a word 
against her, and I’ll — I’ll murder you!” 

His voice and face were so frightful to Mrs. 


124 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


Blake that she uttered a faint, terrified shriek, and 
sped trembling to the door. He let her go, but 
before she had left the room she heard him say in 
a stronger, steadier voice: 

“Never enter this house again.” 

“ Indeed I won’t,” said Mrs. Blake, unwilling 
to depart without at least one Parthian shot, “ and 
for why — because no respectable person in Cas- 
terby will care to enter it, either, when your wife 
has lost her character.” 

She shut the door after her as she said the 
last words, and perhaps it was as well, for Gideon 
threw himself forward as if to hasten her departure 
by forcible means. The closed door, however, 
restrained him. He stood before it silent and 
motionless for a moment, then, with an impatient 
gesture, he turned back to the window and leaned 
once more against the frame. 

At first his face and bearing expressed nothing 
but wrath ; his eyes gleamed under the dark brows, 
and his hands clenched themselves; he muttered 
angry words to himself against gossiping women 
and scandalous tongues. When he grew calmer, 
an expression of anxious doubt crept into his eyes ; 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


125 


his face grew intensely gloomy, as if his mind 
were visited with dismal forebodings. Then a fit 
of restlessness came upon him : he walked up and 
down the room, looked at his watch, went up- 
stairs and down again ; finally walked out into the 
garden, and approached the wooden bench where 
Obed Pilcher sat, peacefully smoking a long clay 
pipe. Beside him John was busy digging with a 
small spade in one of the garden-beds. 

Gideon halted irresolutely near the old man 
and the child. Obed asked him the very ques- 
tion that he dreaded to hear. 

“Where’s Emmy?” he said. 

“ Gone out. I don’t know where.” 

There was a suppressed pain and impatience 
in his voice which made Uncle Obed look at him 
keenly. He had seen Mrs. Blake’s hurried de- 
parture. “ Reckon t’ owd wumman has been 
sayin’ summat she needn’t ha’ said,” he remarked 
to himself. Then, in an unconscious tone : 

“ Mebbe Emmy’s gone to see her mother.” 

“ Yes ; that’s it. Of course she has,” said 
Gideon, with eager assent and relief. His face 

cleared at the comforting reflection. He seated 
9 


126 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


himself on the garden bench, and asked John 
what he was doing. 

“ I be diggin’ a girt hole,” said John, whose 
accent had been acquired mainly from Uncle 
Obed — much to Emmy’s disgust. He stopped his 
work, and leaned on his spade, looking at his 
father solemnly. For his age he spoke with re- 
markable clearness. 

“ Ay, and what’s the hole for ? ” 

“To get f rough — to the ozzer side of the 
world,” said John, with determination. 

“Ah, I remember beginning to do that once,” 
said Gideon, with a laugh. 

“Did oo get frougli?” asked John, with in- 
terest. 

“Ho. It had to be such a big hole that I 
got tired and left off.” 

“I san’t get tired,” said John sturdily. 

He resumed his digging, and the father and 
the uncle watched him with the silent adoration 
for which Emmy often laughed at them both. 

“He’s a fine lad,” said Uncle Obed. 

Gideon nodded, without speaking. 

“But he’s noan so stout as he looks. He’s a 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


127 


bit like Ruth — your mother, Gid. She died of 
a chest complaint.” 

“John’s as strong as a little pony,” said 
Gideon. 

“He’s had a bit of a congh ever sin’ he fell 
into t’ watter,” said Uncle Obed gloomily. 

“ Rubbish ! ” said his nephew. Then, in an 
uneasy tone : “ I’ll tell Miller to look at him again. 
But Emmy thinks he’s all right.” 

“Emmy’s nobbut a wumman, after all,” said 
Obed philosophically, “and women is all alike at 
boddom. A poor sort, mostly. I doan’t think 
mooch o’ any wumman I ever saw. Ruth was 
t’ best ; but she’s dead, poor soul ! ” 

“I never can see why you should say ‘poor 
soul’ because she’s dead,” said Gideon, with a 
touch of the crabbed gloom to which he was 
sometimes subject. 

“ Eh,” said Obed, “ it’s because we know what 
we have to bear, living, but not what we come 
to when we’re dead.” 

“I’m tired.” said John, flinging down his 
spade. “I can’t get frough to-night, fazer. I 
fink I would raver go to bed.” 


128 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


He clambered on Gideon’s knee, and pressed 
bis soft lips to liis father’s cheek. Gideon held 
him close, perhaps too close, for John wriggled 
himself free and began to cough. It was rather 
a hoarse little cough; which Gideon remembered 
that he had heard before. It went through him 
like a knife. 

“ Eh ! don’t cough,” he said, almost sharply in 
his agony. “ Have you a cold ? ” 

“Ho,” said John. “I always cough like that 
in the evenin’ -time.” 

“Mother must give you some lozenges and 
put you to bed,” said Gideon. 

Where was mother? Why did she not come 
home and nurse her child? Had she no love 
for him, as that chattering woman had implied ? 

“Mammy tells me not to make a noise,” said 
John sleepily. “ An’ ze man what pulled me 
out of ze river makes faces at me.” 

Gideon’s brow contracted. He started up. 

“Come, John, I’ll take you to bed. Go to 
sleep, and don’t cough any more. Say good- 
night to Uncle Obed.” 

“I be a-gooin’ down to th’ church,” said 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


129 


Obed. “ There’s a practice or summat agate. 
Good-bye, lad. I’ll be hoame by ten, Gideon.” 

He hobbled away, and Gideon carried the 
boy into the house, undressed him with tender, 
awkward fingers, and put him into his little 
crib. Those who knew him as a man of mo- 
rose and sullen disposition, with, as was popularly 
believed, a violent and unbridled temper, might 
have wondered to see him caring in this way for 
his child — unfastening strings and buttons, listening 
to the sleepily-uttered little prayers, sitting beside 
the small cot until its occupant fell fast asleep. 
Throughout all, the dark face preserved its won- 
derfully softened expression; but when at last, 
as the light of day faded, he rose to go down- 
stairs, it grew hard again — hard and set and grim. 

Emmy had not come in yet. Supper was laid 
in the little dull dining-room, but Gideon did not 
touch the food that was set out. He went into the 
garden, and stood at the gate listening and looking. 
The maid-servant had gone to see her relations. 
Gideon and John were alone in the house. 

At last she came, but not from the town. Gide- 
on noticed that at once. She came from the other 


130 


OUT OF DUE SEASON.* 


side of the garden, as if she had been walking along 
the river-hank, and she was running instead of walk- 
ing, as if she were afraid of being late. When she 
saw Gideon, she dropped into a walk, and began to 
hum a little tune, meaning thereby that she was 
neither excited nor in haste ; but even in that dim 
light Gideon saw that her cheeks were flushed and 
her eyes glistening like stars. 

“ Where have you been ? ” he asked abruptly. 

She stopped short at the gate and looked at him, 
laughing nervously. 

“ I’ve been into the town to see mother, of 
course,” she said. “ And she kept me talking so 
long that I was afraid you would want your supper, 
so I hurried home to give it you. Now, wasn’t that 
good of me ? ” 

Gideon did not often mince his words. He 
lifted his heavy eyes to her face and looked straight 
into hers. 

“ You lie ! ” he said. 

Emmy recoiled a little, as if he had struck her 
with his hand. 

“ Gideon, what a brute you are ! ” she said, 
in a tone of sharp exasperation. “ I have 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


131 


been to mother’s; you can go and ask her if you 
like.” 

“ Yes, but she did not keep you late, and you 
have not come straight from her house. Why do 
you tell me what is not true ? What is it you are 
keeping back ? ” 

He had all but turned his stepmother out of the 
house for her insinuations against Emmy’s good 
name; nevertheless, suspicion had taken hold of 
him, and made him fierce and wild. 

“Why should I be keeping anything back?” 
she asked, eluding a direct answer, as he very 
quickly noticed. “I have been to mother’s . . . 
and then I just ran down to the water-path to look 
for a glow-worm that I saw shining in the grass. I 
thought it would amuse Jacky. Is there anything 
dreadful in that ? ” 

“ There is more than that,” said Gideon slowly. 

His face showed white and grim in the twilight, 
and the colour began to die out of Emmy’s cheeks. 
“ I have been told — to-night — that people talk about 
you ; they say that you spend your time gadding 
about — that you do not love your husband and your 
child any longer ” 


132 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“Who says such horrid things ?” said Emmy 
indignantly. 

Then a sob caught her voice ; she put her hand 
up to her throat and looked away. 

“ It does not matter who says them so long as 
they are not true,” said Gideon. “Oh, Emmy, 
tell me — say that it is not true — you do love me 
still?” 

The passion in his voice touched her, but she 
did not want to show that she was touched. She 
shifted from one foot to the other, shook her slim 
shoulders, turned her head to the dim landscape be- 
yond the garden, so that she should not see Gideon’s 
face. 

“ It is silly to talk in this way,” she broke out at 
length, “ when we are old married people, who have 
got over all that nonsense about love! What on 
earth should we talk about it for ? ” 

“Because I shall never get over it — because I 
care about it more than anything in the world be- 
side,” said Gideon, in a low, passionate voice. 

“ You were always foolish,” she said, with a cold 
laugh, “ always different to other people. Other 
men don’t trouble — don’t bother themselves ” 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


133 


“ Don’t trouble whether their wives are false or 
true ? ” 

There was the old fierceness in his tone. 

“ It’s nothing to do with being false or true,” 
said Emmy, and he saw a sudden flush of colour in 
her face ; “ it’s only a question of my going out to 
tea oftener than you like, and running down to 
mother’s. , You are selfish — that’s what it is ; you 
want to keep me cooped up here, in this miserable 
little house, until I feel inclined to throw myself 
into the river. You get plenty of change and 
amusement, but I get none.” 

Were these entirely her own opinions, or were 
they adopted from the lips of someone else ? It 
seemed to Gideon that they had not quite a natural 
ring. He wondered dully whether she had read 
them in a book. 

“ You — get — none ? ” he repeated. He was al- 
most stunned by the accusation. 

“ Well, what do I get?” asked Emmy, raising 
her voice defiantly. “You grumble and scold if I 
go out with my friends or run down to mother’s. 
You never take me anywhere from one year’s end 
to another. Other people go to Scarborough or 


134 : 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


Bridlington, but we go nowhere. I would not even 
mind Cleethorpes ; it would be a change. But you 
never seem to think of such a thing.” 

“ I haven’t been quite well able to afford it, as 
you know,” said Gideon, who had thrust his hands 
into his pockets and was staring gloomily at the 
ground. “ And — I didn’t know you wanted it — as 
much as all that.” 

“ Will you take me this year, then 2 ” said 
Emmy pantingly. “ Do, Gideon, do ; I want to 
go.” 

There was a note of pleading pain in her voice 
which was new to Gideon, but he did not under- 
stand what it implied. 

“ I can’t ; it is impossible,” he said, plunging his 
hands deeper into his pockets, and frowning darkly. 

He could not bring himself at that moment to 
tell her that he was unable to afford a seaside jaunt 
because he had advanced every available pound of 
his own earnings to free his father from a mortgage 
which the holder threatened to foreclose. He felt 
vaguely that the knowledge of this fact ought to 
exculpate him, even in Emmy’s eyes ; but he had 
an unreasonable dislike to making excuses for him- 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


135 


self, especially at the expense of other people. 
Therefore, he was silent, and Emmy made a gesture 
of anger and disgust. 

“ It’s always so ! ” she said. “ Whenever I want 
anything particularly, it’s always the same old story 
— no money ! no money ! If I had known you were 
going to be so poor, do you think I would have 
married you ? To live in this hovel of a place, and 

f 

go nowhere and see nobody ? Hot I ! But it isn’t 
poverty, it’s meanness, and that is what makes me 
angry. I hate a mean man.” 

“ Are you calling me mean ? ” said Gideon 
slowly. 

“ Yes, I am. Are you so stupid that you can’t 
take even that in ? Yes ; you are as mean as any- 
one can he, for you won’t spend your money even 
on your wife and child. Where does it all go to ? 
You’ve no house-rent to pay, because your uncle 
gives us house-room ; and a miserable arrangement 
it is, to have that vulgar old man always prying 
about ” 

“ Stop that, Emmy ! ” said Gideon, roused to 
decision by her abuse of poor old Uncle Obed. 
“ I’ll not hear a word against him” 


136 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“ Oh, of course, your relations are perfect,” she 
mocked. “But you’re the only person that finds 
them so. Mother always told me I — I was making 
a mistake.” Her voice began to choke, and the 
tears to gather in her eyes. “But I ne — never 
thought — you would be so — unkind.” 

“ Unkind, am I ? ” Gideon said, recovering the 
grimness of manner which showed that he was dis- 
pleased. “Well, there maybe two opinions about 
that, you know. I’ve only this to say : you must 
be content to stay at home. I won’t have people 
talking about my wife, and saying that she is a gad- 
about ; least of all ” — and his voice hardened — 
“ will I have them saying that you take walks with 
Captain Hamilton.” 

Emmy had been quietly crying, but at these 
words her eyes blazed, and the hot colour leaped 
into her wet cheeks. 

“ Who says so ? ” she gasped. “ Who tells such 
lies about me ? ” 

“ Are they lies ? ” said Gideon, looking straight 
at her. 

“ I may have seen him once or twice when I 
was out with John,” said Emmy in a beaten voice, 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


137 


“ and lie always stops to speak to John : lie takes 
such an interest in him ever since he pulled him out 
of the river. You ought to like him for that.” 

“ Pm grateful to him for saving the boy’s life,” 
said Gideon — “ I can’t he less, I suppose ; but all 
the same, I won’t have him hanging about my 
house and my wife, and making foolish people say 
unkind things of you.” 

“ He does no harm.” 

“ I don’t suppose he does. I should kill him if 
I thought he meant any harm — and you, too.” 

“ Oh, Gideon ! ” 

But she was subtly flattered by the threat. 

“ So you may tell him to keep away if he ever 
comes here again.” 

“ I can’t do that, Gideon ; it would look so rude 
and unkind,” she murmured faintly. 

“Then, you must keep out of his way. You 
need not speak to him if you meet him.” 

“ I can’t make -myself ridiculous,” said Emmy 
sullenly. “One would think you were jealous, 
Gideon. I should hope I could look after my- 
self.” 

“It seems you can’t, as you’ve made yourself 


138 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


town-talk already,” her husband replied bitterly. 
“ But for the future you’ll do as I tell you.” 

There was a little silence. Gideon had said all 
that he had wanted to say. Emmy had reached 
the point where she knew protestation to he use- 
less. She took out her handkerchief, and wiped 
away some tears, as she stood with her hack to the 
garden-gate. 

Gideon, on the other side, was not insensible to 
this mute appeal. After a few moments, he leaned 
over the gate and put his arms round her waist. 

“ Emmy, look at me ! Don’t cry, my darling ; I 
didn’t mean to he unkind.” 

“ You were — very unkind,” sobbed Emmy, pur- 
suing an undoubted advantage. 

“ I am very sorry. Won’t you forgive me ? I 
didn’t mean it ; and I’ll see what we can do about 
Scarborough. Perhaps you and John could go 
there without me for a little wdiile. John does 
not seem quite well ” 

“ Oh, you can afford it when its a question of 
John’s health ; but not when it only affects my hap- 
piness ! ” cried Emmy, repulsing him. 

He lingered, mute and bewildered, for a minute 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


139 


or two, then would have spoken again and renewed 
his caresses, had not Emmy pushed him aside, 
slipped through the gate, and hidden herself in the 
house, where, from the lights in the windows, he 
was soon able to conjecture that she had betaken 
herself to bed. 

He had a sore and a heavy heart, and he could 
not tell himself that he had bettered matters by 
speaking; for Emmy was very cold to him after 
that day, and went out more than ever, in complete 
defiance of his expressed desire. 


VI. 

“ Here I and Sorrow sit.” 

The autumn at Casterby grew wild and wet, 
after the glorious summer. Emmy went out less, 
and was quieter than usual. She refused to go to 
Scarborough with John, as Gideon proposed to her 
to do; but she made occasional excursions to a 
small seaside place at a short distance from Cas- 
terby, and returned thence with an excitement of 
manner which struck Gideon as inexplicable. He 
would almost rather that she had gone to Scar- 
borough with John, for the boy’s health seemed 
delicate, and the father was anxious about him. 
But Emmy laughed his anxiety to scorn. 

The breach between Mrs. Blake, senior, and her 
stepson was healed, for Mrs. Blake had apologized 
(somewhat reluctantly) for her insinuations, and 
Gideon was too much attached to his father to be 
implacable. So it happened that he went to his 

140 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


141 


father’s house to tea one afternoon in October, for 
Emmy was to meet him there and to walk home 
with him afterwards. Obed remained at home 
with the hoy. 

They were all seated at the tea-table when 
Gideon arrived. He hung up his hat in the hall, 
and waited a moment to let a maidservant pass him 
with a tray. It was cold and wet and dark, and the 
gas was already lighted in the dining-room, from 
which came the sound of women’s tongues, and 
the scent of tea, hot cakes, and eau-de-Cologne. 
As he waited, a piece of news floated to his 
ears. 

“ Oh yes, it’s all broken off,” said the voice of a 
guest. “ I understand that Captain Hamilton is 
going hack to London directly.” 

“You’ll miss him , dear,” said another voice 
sweetly. 

To whom could she be speaking? And why 
were the words followed by such an ominous little 
silence ? Gideon stepped into the room in rather a 
curious mood. 

But he forgot the subject— it was one of no im- 
portance — when he looked at Emmy’s face, the 
10 


142 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


point to, which his eyes always travelled first when 
he came into a room. "What was the matter with 
Emmy? for something had vexed her without a 
doubt. Her cheeks were as scarlet as poppies, 
and the tears did not seem far from her forget- 
me-not eyes. There was an unmistakable frown 
upon her brow, a pout upon her lips. The voices, 
which had suddenly ceased even before Gideon’s 
entrance, now took up their strain once more, and 
Emmy was the only person who sat silent in the 
company. But when Gideon, looking persistently 
at her, attracted her attention, she gave him an un- 
usually bright smile and a friendly nod, and entered 
into conversation with her neighbours with such 
spirit that Gideon felt relieved. He had certainly 
thought that Emmy was seriously embarrassed and 
annoyed. 

As he had come late, he was not put in any seat 
of honour, but found himself close to his stepsister 
Carry, a position of which he did not altogether ap- 
prove. By way of making talk, he asked her un- 
concernedly : 

“ Whose engagement has been broken off ? ” 

“Miss Lisle’s, of course,” said Carry promptly. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


143 


“ Oh ! how’s that ? ” asked Gideon, helping him- 
self to the hot cakes. 

“Well, they say it’s because she has lost all her 
money and he won’t have her,” said Carry ; “ but I 
don’t think anybody knows exactly.” 

“ He’s a cur, if he won’t marry her because she 
has lost her money,” said Gideon carelessly, “ but 
I hope it’s not that.” 

“ Perhaps he has seen somebody he likes better,” 
said Carry demurely. 

In the midst of the dialogue, across the 
buzz of conversation that seemed to fill the 
room, came Emmy’s voice, high and sharp 
across the lower tones, as she addressed her hus- 
band and her sister-in-law from the other side of 
the table. 

“ You are very ready to speak evil of people you 
know nothing about, I think,” she said, with red 
cheeks and sparkling eyes. “Captain Hamilton 
would never have given her up for the loss of her 
money; it was because he found he did not love 
her that he gave her up.” 

The eyes of the company were fixed on Emmy 
in rather a curious way. 


144 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“ How do you know ? ” said Carry’s small, slirill 
pipe. 

And Gideon looked at his wife in simple amaze- 
ment. 

“ Oh — I know, because — somebody told me so,” 
she answered angrily. “And Captain Hamilton 
saved Jacky’s life, and I — I never like to hear him 
run down.” 

“Ho, of course not — of course not, my dear,” 
said old Joe Blake, in a soothing tone. Emmy was 
sitting next to him, and he laid his big hand over 
hers and patted it. “You are quite right to 
stick up for the man who saved your hoy’s life,” 
he said ; and Gideon felt grateful to him for say- 
ing it. 

The clash of gossiping tongues began again ; the 
reek of smoking teapots and muffins filled the air. 
Attention was diverted from Emmy, who felt 
ashamed of her outbreak ; hut Gideon’s eye was 
fixed thoughtfully upon her, and — horror of horrors ! 
— she felt the big tears beginning to fall. Two 
splashed straight into her lap, a choking sensation 
came in her throat, and she wondered whether she 
were going to faint. Then, fortunately for her, 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


145 


came tlie move to the “ best room.” She was able 
to breathe a cooler air, and to fly upstairs to bathe 
her face ; and in a little while she was downstairs 
again, seated at the piano, and singing the most 
popular song of the hour at the very top of her 
voice. 

Gideon was not of a sociable turn, and he wanted 
to be home again, for John had caught a feverish 
cold, which made the father anxious. However, he 
knew that there was no use in trying to hasten 
Emmy’s departure, and he therefore waited pa- 
tiently, standing about in corners with crossed arms 
and an air of resignation which some people thought 
sullen. Emmy was the life of the party. With 
blazing cheeks and brilliant, dilated eyes, she was 
the centre of every amusement which Casterby 
ideas of propriety allowed at an evening entertain- 
ment. There was, of course, no dancing, but there 
were round games of various kinds, and a charade 
at the close of the evening. It was nearly twelve 
o’clock when the guests went home. 

“ Oh, I am so tired ! ” said Emmy, as soon as she 
had quitted the house and turned into the broad wet 
street. Her vivacity fell from her like a garment, 


146 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


and left her petulant and dissatisfied. “ Fancy hav- 
ing to walk all this way ! ” 

66 I’m sorry it’s raining,” said Gideon in an 
apologetic way, as though he were responsible for 
the weather ; “ but we shall soon be home now. I 
wonder how John is ? ” 

“ Oh, John! John!” she repeated irritably. 
“You care for nobody but John.” 

“You have no right to say that,” said Gideon, 
not wise enough to know that silence was his best 
policy. “ You are always making accusations of 
that sort, and yet surely you are fond of John your- 
self. At least, I suppose you are, or you would not 
make such a fuss about that Captain Hamilton for 
saving him.” 

This was carrying the war into the enemy’s 
country indeed. Emmy wrenched her arm away 
from him, and walked on the other side of the pave- 
ment. He followed her with the umbrella which he 
had been holding over both their heads, and half re- 
gretted his speech, for he saw that her lips were 
quivering and her eyes ready to overflow. But she 
did not reply, and for some minutes they walked on 
in silence. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


147 


“We seem to be always wrangling, now,” said 
Emmy at last, in a heart-broken voice, “ and noth- 
ing I do or say is right. I’m sure I don’t know 
how it is. I think you would be happier without me.” 

“ Don’t be a fool ! ” said Gideon gruffly. 

“ Oh, I’m not such a fool as you think. I can 
see that you are wrapped up in the child, and think 
nothing of me.” 

“ Your child, Emmy,” said her husband, a touch 
of deep feeling showing itself beneath his usual re- 
serve. 

“ He’s taken my place, any way,” she answered 
obstinately ; and against this extraordinary assertion 
Gideon felt himself powerless to strive. He tried 
to change the subject. 

“ It was a nice sort of party, wasn’t it ? ” he 
said, a little doubtfully. 

“ It was a horrible, hateful party,” said Emmy, 
with sudden fire, “and I can’t think why I ever 
went to it. Silly little tea-parties in a country 
town, what are they? If it had been a big ball, 
such as one reads of in books, or a stately dinner- 
party — but what can you expect in a little place 
like this ? ” 


148 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“ But even if we lived in a bigger place,” said 
Gideon, “ you know, my dear, we should not have 
the chance of those things.” 

She made an impatient movement. 

“ Oh, I know as well as you do,” she said, “ the 
shamefully sordid, poverty-stricken life we are 
likely to lead. And I don’t suppose you would 
have done any better for me if you could. I’m 
tired of it.” 

Gideon made no answer. His temper was not 
under much control, but Emmy’s direct attacks 
pained rather than angered him. His love for her 
gave him a kind of patience, which he showed to 
no one else. Neither of them spoke another word 
until they reached the house, when a few cold and 
trivial remarks on John’s condition were inter- 
changed. 

John was not well. He was coughing a good 
deal and very feverish. The following morning 
was Saturday, and Gideon left him in bed, promis- 
ing that he would come home early and sit with 
him all the afternoon. He thought that Emmy 
looked at him oddly as he said the words. 

“ Are you going out ? ” he asked her. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


149 


She turned away hastily. 

“Ho — at least, I may run down to mother’s. 
If you are with Jacky, he will he all right — I 
needn’t stay in.” 

“ Ho. I only thought you would hardly care to 
leave him.” 

“ I don’t make myself such a slave to the child 
as you do,” said Emmy scornfully. “ He would be 
all right if he was up and out ; it’s a lovely day.” 

Injdeed, the sun was shining brilliantly, and the 
yellowing leaves of the trees looked golden in the 
light. The garden was full of autumn dowers — 
chrysanthemums and sunflowers and Michaelmas 
daisies ; it looked quite attractive to John’s childish 
eyes as he lay in his crib near the window. He 
noted what his mother said, but was shrewd enough 
not to provoke discussion; he had already learnt 
wisdom in these matters. When his father was 
gone out he spoke. 

“ Mammy, may I get up ? I’m tired of being in 
bed.” 

“ Oh yes ; get up if you like,” said Emmy care- 
lessly. She was trying the effect of ribbons against 
her face in the glass. As J ohn scrambled into his 


150 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


garments, without much assistance from her, he 
wondered at the pretty things that she took out 
from her drawers and looked at now and then. 
Once he caught the glitter of stones and gold, and 
pressed nearer to see. “ Oh, let me look ! ” he 
cried. He could not understand why his mother 
turned round angrily and boxed his ears ; he did 
not know that he was doing anything wrong. She 
seemed to want to get him out of the room, so he 
crept downstairs to the kitchen, where Keziah, the 
maid-of-all-work, consoled him and gave him a 
lemon cheesecake. But he was not hungry, and 
after holding it for some time in his hand, he put it 
down, and strolled out of the kitchen into the 
parlour, where it was not so hot and stifling as it 
was by the kitchen fire. 

Emmy came downstairs, and found him curled 
up in a nest of cushions on the sofa, with the cat 
on his lap. She took no notice of his flushed face 
and heavy eyes, nor of the croupy cough which 
shook his little frame every few minutes ; she had 
matters of her own to think of which completely 
absorbed her mind. She was dressed for walking, 
with a rather thick veil tied over her face; but 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


151 


through the black net it could he seen that there 
were hot spots of colour on her cheeks, and that her 
eyes were unusually bright. Her voice had a 
strained, unnatural tension as she spoke. 

“John, what business have you here? How- 
ever, it doesn’t matter. I’m going out ; tell father 
I shan’t be home till — late.” 

“Where’s oo goin’, mammy?” said John 
hoarsely. 

“ Oh, I’m going to see a friend. I’m going by 
train.” 

“ Give me a kiss, mammy,” said the child, rous- 
ing himself up and tumbling the cat off his 
lap in his haste. “You always kiss Jacky good- 
bye.” 

She came and stooped down to kiss him, and 
when she felt the baby arms round her neck she 
began to quiver and to sob. 

“ Oh, Jacky — mother’s little Jacky — how can I 
go away ? ” she cried, with her face on the soft little 
neck. 

“ Stay, then, mammy — stay with Jacky ; he’s so 
poorly. Stay and make him well.” 

Emmy knelt beside him for a moment, and he 


152 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


felt her trembling in every limb; then, as if 
by a supreme effort, she rose and drew herself 
away. 

“ How silly I am!” she said impatiently. 
“You won’t want me, John; you have father and 
Uncle Obed and Keziah: you’ll be all right. 
Good-bye ; take care of yourself.” 

She went out without looking back. In the hall 
she stopped and called to the maid, still in the same 
strained, high voice : 

“ Keziah ! Look after John, will you ? ” 

“Are you going out, m’m?” said Keziah 
stolidly. 

“ Yes ; I’m going to Hull, to do some shopping. 
You can tell master so when he comes in. I shall 
not be home till late.” 

“ There ain’t nothing ordered for Sunday din- 
ner,” said Keziah in a resentful tone. “ And you 
haven’t made the pies nor nothing. Master won’t 
be main pleased if we give him rice pudden 
again ” 

“ Oh, be quiet with your puddings and pies,” 
said Emmy, putting up her hands to her ears. 
“ It’s always the way — always a talk about house- 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


153 


keeping and cooking— till I’m sick of it. Get what 
yon like ; I don’t care.” 

She turned to the front-door, and Keziah retired 
grumbling to the kitchen. A little figure stood at 
the parlour-door — a little figure with tousled fair 
head and feverish lips, calling hoarsely to “ mam- 
my ” for a parting word. 

“ Mammy, may I sit up till oo come back ? ” the 
little cracked voice said. 

It was with a movement of absolute desperation 
that Emmy opened the door and slid out into the 
garden, shutting her ear to Jacky’s plaintive little 
cry “ Oh, why didn’t I go at night ? ” she was say- 
ing to herself, “when the child was asleep, and 
couldn’t plague me in this way ! ” A sob escaped 
her lips. “ He’ll never plague me again,” she said 
to herself. Then a wave of bitterness checked the 
sobs. “They’ll forget me easily enough; Gideon 
simply worships the boy, and doesn’t care a bit 
about me. Well, he will see now that somebody 
else is willing to give up everything for my sake — 
just as I am giving up everything for his. Hot 
that I have very much to give up,” she added, 
laughing a little wildly as she shut the garden-gate 


154 : 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


behind her. “ Oh, I wish it was all over ; I wish I 
were safe in London — with George ! He’ll protect 
me — he'll take care of me. I shall never know 
another care.” 

Here the connected line of thought was broken, 
for she had turned out of the lane into the main 
street of the town. She would willingly have 
avoided it, but there was no other way of getting to 
the station, where she meant to take a train to Ret- 
ford. At Retford she was to book for London, but 
she had been counselled not to take her London 
ticket from Casterby, as she might be more easily 
tracked if the direction of her journey were known. 
And she had no desire to be followed, just as she 
had no desire ever to return to Casterby. 

Just as she turned into the road an open car- 
riage passed by. The horses were going at a foot- 
pace, and the carriage had only one occupant, whom 
Emmy recognised as Miss Frances Lisle. The two 
women looked each other straight in the face, but, 
for some reason or other, neither of them betrayed 
any sign of recognition. Frances was very pale, and 
her face had a drawn look, but her eyes rested 
steadily and calmly on the heated, excited counte- 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


155 


nance that Emmy showed behind her veil. There 
was an air of triumph, of exultation, about Mrs. 
Blake which Frances remembered afterwards. The 
carriage passed slowly forward, and Emmy sped 
with hurried footsteps to the railway station, where 
she took her ticket unobserved, and was quickly 
borne away from Casterby. 

Gideon came home about two o’clock, and was 
horrified to see John’s face at the door. 

“ What are you doing out of bed ? ” he ex- 
claimed, almost roughly. 

“ Mammy said I might get up,” answered the 
boy. “ An’ my cough’s not so drefihil bad now, I 
fink. I’m so glad you’ve corned, daddy. It’s been 
so werry lonely.” 

“ Has mother gone out, then ? ” said Gideon, in 
a startled voice. 

“ She’s gone to do shopping. She won’t be 
back till late.” 

“ Missis has gone to Hull,” said Keziah, appear- 
ing at the kitchen door with a melancholy face. 
“And nothing ordered for to-morrow! She said I 
was to ask you what you’d have.” 


156 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“ Oli, I don’t care,” said Gideon, gathering 
John np into his arms. “ Get what you like ; I 
dare say it will be all right. Roast beef and plum 
pie — that’s the usual sort of thing, isn’t it ? And 
you, young man, you must come in out of the 
cold. Ah, coughing again ! You ought to be in 
bed.” 

“ Mammy didn’t want to go away,” said John ir- 
relevantly. “ She kied when she kissed me, she did.” 

“ That must have been because you had a 
cough,” said Gideon cheerfully, though he knitted 
his brow over John’s statement. 

After dinner, which was a very scrappy meal, 
he made Keziah light the fire in the sitting-room, 
a task at which she grumbled a good deal, and 
drew up the couch to the hearth with all a man’s 
disregard for conventional arrangements of the 
furniture. Here TJncle Obed joined them before 
long, and the two men devoted themselves with 
somewhat pathetic solicitude to the entertainment 
of the sick child. They had a difficult task, for 
John was in the restless, petulant state of approach- 
ing illness, and would not be pleased with any- 
thing. All his toys were strewn on the floor ; 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


157 


every picture-book in the house had been brought 
out for his amusement; and Gideon had roared 
himself as hoarse as the child in his successive im- 
personations of lions and bears, but without much 
result; for, with the perversity of childhood and 
of sickness, John took it into his head to cry for 
his mother, and to declare that he wanted nobody 
but her. 

Crying made him cough again, and his hands 
were so hot and dry that Gideon at last whispered 
to his uncle to go for Dr. Miller. The doctor ap- 
peared between six and seven o’clock, when the 
light was beginning to fade, and found Gideon 
walking up and down the firelit room with the 
child in his arms. John had sunk into a doze, but 
when he was roused he looked about him with 
glazed eyes which seemed to see nothing, and bab- 
bled of his mother. 

“Eh, where is his mother, by the way?” the 
doctor asked. 

“ I expect her back every minute,” said Gid- 
eon, not taking his eyes from John’s face. “ She 
went to do some shopping at Hull to-day, unfortu- 
nately.” 


11 


158 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“ Nay, my good man, she didn’t do that,” said 
Dr. Miller good-humouredly, and not meaning any 
harm. “ I saw her at Gainsborough Station this 
afternoon.” 

“ Oli, well, it’s all the same ; she’s gone to buy 
things,” said Gideon impatiently. “What does it 
matter ? Just look at the boy, doctor, and tell me 
what’s wrong with him.” 

The doctor drew in his lips with a smothered 
whistle. He had not only seen Mrs. Blake at 
Gainsborough, but he had noticed that she was in 
the Betford train. Was Gideon not aware of the 
fact ? The doctor did not want to make mischief, 
and therefore said nothing more just then. He 
turned his attention to the boy. 

“ Yes, you must get him to bed,” he said, rather 
gravely, after examining him. “ I hope it won’t 
turn to pneumonia. What will you do for a 
nurse ? ” 

“We can nurse him well enough, Emmy and 
I,” said Gideon. 

“ Do you think she will get back — from Bet- 
ford — to-night ? ” 

“ Betford ! ” 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


159 


“ My dear Gideon, I dare say slie had got into 
the Retford train by mistake. I saw her in the 
carriage, and wondered what she was off to Ret- 
ford for. But if she went there to do her shop- 
ping, she will hardly get back to-night.” 

Gideon had turned pale. He made a step 
towards the door as if he meant to rush off in 
search of his wife; then his eyes fell on John’s 
flushed face, and he stopped short. 

“ I can’t leave the boy,” he said, with a glance 
towards the doctor that was almost piteous. His 
hands trembled, and the doctor bit his lip. 

“ It’s all right, no doubt,” said the rough, kindly 
little man. “ She’s made a mistake in the train, 
and will come flying back in great tribulation 
before long, or will send a telegram saying that she 
can’t get back to-night. Awkward, when your 
boy’s ill, but it can’t be helped. Shall I go round 
to Mrs. Worlaby’s and ask her to look in for the 
night ? ” 

Mrs. Worlaby was a nurse. Gideon resented 
the suggestion. 

“I don’t suppose there’s anything she can do 
that I can’t,” he said sourly. 


160 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“ H’m, I don’t know. Can you make a poultice, 
for example ? ” 

“ No, but Keziab can.” 

“Keziah. Let me see — Keziah Wragge. Yes, 
she comes of a nursing family; perhaps she can 
manage. I will speak to her. And do you get 
that boy to bed.” 

The doctor strode out into the kitchen, and 
Gideon, seizing a rug from the sofa, wrapped the 
child in its soft folds and carried him upstairs. 
Here he found Obed Pilcher on his knees before 
the little bedroom grate, where he was already 
lighting a fire. Unfortunately, the chimney had 
been stuffed up, and wanted cleaning, and even 
when a bundle of straw had been removed it did 
not “ draw ” very well ; the consequence was that 
successive puffs of smoke soon filled the room, 
thickening the atmosphere, and making John cough 
and cry. 

“ Doan’t thee cry now, sonny,” said Obed 
cheerfully. “ Smoake ’ll soon go, an’ then theer’ll 
be a nice bit o’ fire. Sithee now, ’tis better 
already.” 

“ Oh, this won’t do ! ” said the doctor, coming 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


161 


in abruptly and snuffing up the smoke. “ This is 
intolerable ! ” 

He glanced round sharply, as if to scold some- 
one, and then stopped short, taking in the elements 
of the scene. There was Obed Pilcher, bending 
his rheumatic knees and half breaking his old 
back, in trying to make the fire bum up. There 
was Gideon, sitting on the bed, with the sick 
child — only the doctor knew how sick — held close 
to his breast. A vision of Emmy floated before 
Dr. Miller’s mind, and — whether she came back, or 
whether she had gone altogether, as he shrewdly 
suspected — he felt certain that only unhappiness 
and misery could follow in her train. He was sorry 
for all of them — sorry for the old man, panting and 
grunting over the smoking hearth; sorry for the 
little boy, in his feverish pain and weakness ; sorry 
most of all for Gideon, whose look of mute endur- 
ance touched the doctor to the heart. 

He scolded no longer, but applied himself ener- 
getically to the task of setting things in order. Dr. 
Miller was a man of resource. He suggested that, 
as there was already a comfortable fire in the par- 
lour, the child’s bed should be made there at once. 


162 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


He helped Keziah to make and apply a poultice ; 
he fetched a bronchitis-kettle from home with his 
own hands, and did not leave the cottage until he 
had seen all arrangements made for a brave fight 
with the malady which had attacked the child. At 
the last moment Obed Pilcher took heart of grace, 
and tremulously asked the question which Gideon 
had tacitly avoided. 

“ Is it serious, doctor ? ” said the old man, look- 
ing into Dr. Miller’s face. 

“ All children’s complaints are serious,” said the 
doctor dogmatically. “ Their temperature goes up 
and down so quickly that they want great care. 
But , with care, there is no reason why any com- 
plaint should not be cured, if taken in time.” 

With this enigmatic reply he took his departure, 
calling out to Obed to send for him if the child 
should be worse. And then the two men set them- 
selves to wrestle with the enemy all the long night 
through — to wrestle with the Angel of Death. 

John was very ill. There could be no doubt 
about that. Every breath was agony to him ; yet 
the fever ran so high that, while his mind wandered, 
he tried to talk and sing, and even to spring out of 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


163 


his bed. He was quieter with his father’s arms 
round him than in any other position, and for the 
greater part of the night Gideon sat holding him 
thus, while Obed, refusing to go to bed, sat over 
the fire, ready at any moment to compound a hot 
drink, administer medicine, or go to the doctor, as 
might be required. Keziah had been sent to bed ; 
they had no need for her. 

It was about ten o’clock that she had knocked 
at the parlour door, and said in her grufi way: 

“ Is missis a-coming back to-night or not ? ” 

Obed looked helplessly at Gideon. 

“ I don’t think so,” said Gideon. There was 
not a spark of feeling in his tone. His eyes were 
fixed upon John’s face. 

“ Then I may as well go to bed,” said Keziah, 
“unless you’d like me to sit up wi’ John.” 

“Ho; let her go to bed,” said Gideon to his 
uncle. 

“If missis should come home, then,” said the 
maid-of -all-work, “I reckon you’ll let her in?” 

“ Yes,” said Obed. 

Then Keziah shut the door, and the old man 
went up to Gideon, and laid his hand on his 


164 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


nephew’s shoulder. Gideon knew that the touch 
was meant for comfort. 

“ She won’t come back,” he said suddenly, rais- 
ing his eyes, already haggard and bloodshot, to his 
uncle’s face. “ She’s left me.” 

“ Nay, nay, Gideon ; she was fond of thee — 
fond o’ the lad. She’s made a mistake wi’ trains, 
or summat, as the doctor said.” 

“ The doctor’s a fool,” said Gideon. “What 
does it matter ? There’s the hoy to think of ; it’s 
time for his medicine now.” 

And he spoke not another word, except to little 
John, until the morning hour. 

“No better, I’m afraid,” the doctor said, with a 
grave look, as he stood by the bedside on the early 
Sunday morning. “Hadn’t you better have a 
nurse ? ” 

“ Ho you mean,” said Gideon, “ that a woman 
could do more for him than we can ? ” 

“ I don’t know that she would actually do more : 
she might think of things you wouldn’t think of. 
Now, Gideon, don’t he absurd. I’ll just send Mrs. 
Worlaby in, and then ” 

“I will have no Mrs. Worlaby in the house — 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


165 


unless I am injuring the boy by refusing,” he said, 
with an ominous frown upon his face. “ But I 
think I can nurse him as well as any woman in the 
world. Look at him: he’s quieter with me than 
with anyone else. I can do everything for him 
that is necessary.” 

“ But you’ll want your night’s rest.” 

“ Do you think I should take rest while he is 
like this ? ” 

The doctor shrugged his shoulders, and recog- 
nised that there was something keener in Gideon’s 
love for his child than that of most men for their 
offspring. He yielded the point. 

“ I don’t say but what you’ll do as well as a 
nurse, if you can spare the time and will take the 
trouble.” 

And then he launched into new directions, to 
which Gideon listened with eager attention. In his 
heart the doctor felt that no hired nurse would tend 
the child like Gideon ; but he went away shaking 
his head. 

“ I doubt whether the boy will get over it,” he 
said to himself ; “ and Gideon will take it hard. It 
will be all the worse for him if he nurses the child 


166 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


to the end. And what on earth has become of that 
vain little piece of wickedness, his wife ? ” 

Nobody could answer that question. There was 
an eight o’clock post on Sunday morning, but no 
other until Monday. No telegram had arrived. A 
rumour of Emmy’s disappearance roused her mother 
to desperate anxiety, and she consulted nervously 
with Mr. Blake as to the steps to be taken on Mon- 
day, if nothing were heard of her. The police were 
communicated with, for Mrs. Enderby firmly be- 
lieved that her daughter had met with some fright- 
ful accident, which alone could account for her 
absence. Gideon did not seem anxious, or even, 
perhaps, concerned. He was wrapped up in the 
care of his boy. He was like a man stunned with 
one blow, who does not seem to feel the pain of a 
second. Consciousness would return by and by. 

John was very ill. Through the long hours of 
the day, Gideon watched beside him, noting every 
change in the little face, where the crimson came 
and went as the child drew his painful, choking 
breaths ; watched the progress of the disease, and 
fought it— ineffectually ; for as time went on, it be- 
came very clear indeed that the childish strength 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


167 


was waning, and that the hours of the little life 
were drawing to a close. 

Yisitors came to the house in numbers, but were 
dismissed by Keziah, who had orders to admit no- 
body. Mrs. Blake came, but was politely conducted 
off the premises by Obed Pilcher, who made him- 
self chief guard to the sick-chamber. John was 
to be kept quiet, the doctor said ; and it was as 
much for Gideon’s as for John’s sake that ITncle 
Obed kept the door. To him it seemed as though 
Gideon were more like a wounded wild animal 
keeping savage watch over its young, than a mere 
human being. He listened to no word of comfort ; 
he took neither food nor sleep ; he never lifted his 
eyes from the dearly -loved little face, in which he 
had centred all his hopes and all his happiness — if 
not all his love. Obed would not let gaping ob- 
servers in to see what was, to him, a strange and 
terrible sight. 

The day crept to its height and sank again. 
Night came with its desolation, its weird horrors, 
its lurking possibilities of ill. The weather had 
changed during the afternoon, and the wind was 
getting up. It moaned restlessly round the house, 


168 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


whistling at every crevice, making door and window 
shake. Now and then a dash of rain was heard 
against the window-panes, and the swaying branches 
of rose-tree or jessamine tapped at the glass like an 
unearthly hand. More than once Obed fancied that 
he distinguished veritable finger-tapping ; but he al- 
ways sank back again in his chair, acknowledging 
the source of these strange noises, yet not without a 
gleam of superstitious doubt whether the sound he 
had heard might not have been “ a call ” for the 
dying child. He wondered if Gideon had heard. 
But Gideon, with his chin pillowed by his hands, 
and his elbows on his knees, saw nothing, heard 
nothing, but “ the boy.” 

John was delirious that night. He was afraid 
of his own father — the father that loved him so — 
and beat him off with his little hands whenever 
Gideon came near. He wanted his mother, he said, 
and why did not mammy come ? 

“ I do so want my mammy ! ” he wailed in his 
broken voice, with the pathetic, unseeing stare of 
his great eyes fixed reproachfully on Gideon. 
“Mammy would take the pain away; mammy 
would make John better.” 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


169 


It was piteous to hear; especially when the 
listeners reflected that his mother had shown so 
very little love for him. But there are few things 
that rend the heart more terribly than the wild 
words spoken in delirium by those we love, or an 
absence of recognition in the eyes of those for 
whom we would willingly lay down our lives. 

Once Gideon lost his self-control, and cried out 
in remonstrance: 

“John, John, don’t you know me — your own 
father ? Don’t push me away, lad ; I’ve done thee 
no harm.” 

“He doesn’t know, Gideon,” said old Obed, 
hobbling to his nephew’s side — “ he doesn’t 
know.” 

“ My God ! ” said Gideon, his reserve breaking 
down as it seldom broke down save in his old 
uncle’s presence, “ I don’t know how to bear it — 
that he shouldn’t know my voice!” And a dry 
sob shook his broad shoulders as he covered his 
face for one moment with his hands. “ John — 
laddie,” he said, raising himself again, “say one 
word to your daddy — say that you know him 
now.” 


170 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


But John pushed him away, and wailed bitterly 
for his mother. 

Morning found him very weak. The delirium 
had died down, for the fever had left him ; but 
he lay so still and white, with such purple shades 
about his eyelids and his lips, that more than once 
Obed almost thought him dead. Dr. Miller, who 
came very early, shook his head over his condi- 
tion. He gave orders about nourishment and 
cordials, saying that the child’s strength must be 
kept up as much as possible. And he would come 
in again and see how things went on. 

The postman came as the doctor went out of 
the gate. It was the London post, and there was 
a letter for Gideon. 

Obed Pilcher took it at once to his nephew, 
who was sitting in a sort of trance of absorbed 
0 anxiety at John’s bedside. He looked very hag- 
gard, but the doctor had insisted on his swallowing 
food and hot coffee, and he was more composed 
than he had been during those dreary midnight 
hours. He looked at the letter which Obed put 
into his hand as if he did not know what to do 
with it. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


m 

“Open it, lad. It’s from Emmy, belike.” 

Gideon turned away bis face. 

“ Wunnot tbee open it? She may say when 
sbe’s a-comin’ back.” 

At this appeal Gideon drew himself slowly up, 
and dragged the envelope open. It seemed an 
effort to him even to take his eyes from John’s 
white face. He read the letter — it contained only 
a few lines — and let it drop from his fingers. 

“I knew it,” he said, in a dull undertone. 
Then he resumed his silent watch, with his eyes 
fixed on the boy. But his face had turned to an 
ashy whiteness, like that of Jacky’s lips. 

Obed picked up the letter and straightened it 
out between his shaking fingers. 

“ You can read it,” Gideon muttered. And 
Obed read. 

“ When you get this letter,” Emmy had writ- 
ten, “ I shall be far away, and you need not look 
for me, for you will never find me, and I do not 
want to see you any more. I have found someone 
who loves me better than you ever did, and I have 
given up everything for his sake. You had better 


172 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


forget me as soon as you can — I dare say it won’t 
be difficult. I hope you will always be kind to 
Jaeky, and think no more of 

“ Emmy.” 

Obed Pilcher was parish-clerk, and felt himself 
a pillar of the church, but after reading this letter, 
it must be recorded that he swore. If his curse 
could have rested on Emmy’s fair false head for 
ever, and weighed it down to everlasting woe, he 
would have gladly uttered it again. 

“ Hush ! ” said Gideon, looking up with hag- 
gard eyes. “The boy will hear.” 

“ But bean’t you going to do something, 
Gideon? To send after her — to punish the man, 
whoever ’tis ” 

“Afterwards,” Gideon answered quietly, and 
turned again to the boy. And Obed knew that 
he must say no more. 

There were still some fluctuations in John’s 
condition, and more than once the father’s heart 
was thrilled with the belief that he was about to 
recover, after all, and then sank, heavy as lead, 
when an unfavourable symptom declared itself. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


173 


Joseph Blake and liis wife were allowed to steal 
in gently in order to see the little boy. The parson 
called, bnt was not admitted; and a hundred in- 
quiries were made at the door, and dismally an- 
swered by Keziah. Gideon had never been a 
favourite in the town, and Emmy had earned 
much disapproval for herself ; but little John was 
one of those bright-faced children of whom every- 
one took friendly heed, and his comparatively 
recent escape from drowning had brought him into 
prominence. No sick child in the town received 
half so much attention as was just then bestowed 
on Jacky. But it brought no solace to his father’s 
wounded heart. 

It was in the early dawn of Tuesday morning 
that full consciousness came again to the child for 
a little while. He opened his dark eyes suddenly 
and smiled into his father’s face. Gideon’s heart 
throbbed so painfully that he could not speak, but 
he bent down and kissed the boy’s forehead. 

“ I’ve been asleep,” said John. 

His voice was almost inaudible. 

“ Yes, my lad. Here, drink this ; it will do you 
good.” 


12 


174 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


John drank, and spoke in stronger tones. 

“ Where’s mammy ? ” he said. 

A quiver passed over Gideon’s face. 

“ She’s away just now,” he answered. 

“ Gone to heaven?” said John, with the queer 
familiar speech of another world which seems so 
natural on childish lips. 

An inspiration came to Gideon’s mind. It 
would be better for John to think that his mother 
had died, and so he bowed his head. 

“ Oh ! ” said the boy. Then, after a pause : 
“ John’s goin’ — too.” 

He shut his pretty eyes as if he meant to sleep, 
and Gideon, with a hideous grip of pain at his 
heart, saw the death-damp gather on his brow. 

It lasted an hour or two — that agony of dying. 
It seemed to Gideon cruel that a little child should 
bear such pain. But perhaps it was worse for Gide- 
on to witness than for the child to bear. And at 
last old Obed laid the tiny waxen hands across each 
other and drew Gideon from his place. 

“ It’s all over,” he said sorrowfully. “ Try to 
bear it, Gideon. He’s gone.” 

Gideon rose from his knees, and looked from 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


175 


the child’s placid lifelessness into his uncle’s rugged, 
wrinkled face, as if he scarcely understood what 
had been said. As Obed’s hand still pressed his 
arm and drew him from the bed, he made two 
steps towards the middle of the room, and then 
fell, like a log, prone upon the floor at Uncle Obed’s 
feet. 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ Would it were I had been false, not you ! ” 

“ It’s a great mystery,” remarked Mrs. Blake, 
primly folding one black-gloved band over tbe 
other. 

“ It is indeed a terrible dispensation,” answered 
her friend, Miss Lethbnry. “ So young a child to 
be taken — and the mother left ! ” 

Miss Lethbury was a spinster of profoundly 
Evangelical views and an acid temperament, both 
of which characteristics had endeared her to Mrs. 
Blake, who was not religious herself, but liked other 
people to be so — if, at least, they did not carry their 
religion to any inconvenient length. There was 
this advantage about Miss Lethbury : she never 
allowed her Evangelicalism to modify the sharpness 
of her criticism of her neighbours ; on the contrary, 
it seemed sometimes to add an edge to it. She was 
straight and tall and spare; her long nose and 

176 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


17T 


straight upper lip gave her a look of severity which 
her words seldom belied. 

She was sitting with Mrs. Blake till the mourn- 
ing-carriage should arrive. Joseph Blake and his 
wife were to be present at little John’s funeral that 
afternoon, and Miss Lethbury had dropped in, en 
passant, to hear the news. She would have ample 
time to walk to the cemetery afterwards, for the 
Blakes would have to be driven to Gideon’s house 
before the final ceremony began. 

“I always said that Emmy Enderby was very 
deep,” said Mrs. Blake, lowering her tones. “ It’s 
a dreadful thing to have come upon the family. 
My husband’s nearly heart-broken about it ; and 
Carry she says she’ll go away, she can’t hold up her 
head in Casterby again.” 

“ Yes, it’s very bad for a girl’s prospects when 
such a thing happens,” said Miss Lethbury, in tones 
of deepest commiseration. 

66 1 don’t see as it need affect Carry, and that’s 
what I told her,” said Mrs. Blake with dignity. 
“ It’s no relation of hers, nor yet of her father’s or 
mine. It’s Enderbys as ought to feel it most, I 
think. But there, they were all of that light- 


178 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


minded sort, and I was not one bit surprised ; but 
it has nothing to do with us” 

“Well, perhaps you are right, Mrs. Blake,” said 
Miss Lethbury. “ But what will Mr. Gideon do ? 
Is he going to get a divorce ? ” 

“ISTobody knows,” answered Mrs. Blake, shak- 
ing her head dolorously. “He won’t allow any- 
body to mention the matter to him. He was al- 
ways so strange — so shut-up and reserved, you 
know. Scarcely anyone has seen him or spoken to 
him since the little boy’s death. But I should 
think he would get a divorce : there could be no 
difficulty. 

“ It’s quite Scriptural to divorce a woman like 
that,” said Miss Lethbury. “ And then he could 
marry some nice, quiet girl— Mary Tucker, for 
instance — and be happy. I suppose there’s no 
doubt as to who it was she went off with ? ” 

“ Hot the least. It was that Captain Ham- 
ilton that was once engaged to Miss Lisle. They 
were seen together at Betford. And they say 
Miss Lisle fainted when she heard that Emmy 
was gone. You may depend on it, she 
knew.” 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


179 


“She may thank her stars that she found 
out his wickedness before it was too late ! ” 

“He’d broken it off before then,” said Mrs. 
Blake. “Don’t you remember that Friday after- 
noon at tea, when Emmy took up the cudgels 
for him, and cried afterwards ? I thought there 
was something very queer about it then.” 

“Hard-hearted little minx!” said Miss Leth- 
bury, indignantly. “I should like to whip her 
round the town for her behaviour! Depend on 
it, that’s the way in which women of her sort 
should be treated.” 

“I shudder to think,” Mrs. Blake responded 
in sepulchral tones, “that she sat at my table, 
and conversed with my friends and my child! 
Gideon was very much to blame for not restrain- 
ing her more ; but he is punished for it now.” 

“I trust that the judgments of God may be 
blessed to his soul.” 

“Well, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Blake, 
doubtfully; “Gideon never set up to be relig- 
ious, and I haven’t heard that there’s been any 
change in him. He wouldn’t see Mr. Fletcher, 
nor his curate neither, when they called. And, 


180 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


mercy me! there’s tlie carriage. Well, good-bye, 
Lydia. We shall see you, maybe, at the ceme- 
tery.” 

•‘I’m going to walk down there now,” said 
Miss Lethbury. “ There’ll be a good crowd o’ 
folk. They want to see how Gideon takes it.” 

“ Ay, there’s been a deal of talk about Gid- 
eon,” said Mrs. Blake, dismally. And then she 
joined her husband in the passage, put her black 
kid hand into his arm, and walked ceremoniously 
down the garden-path with him to the mourn- 
ing-carriage at the door. 

Such ceremony was befitting to the occasion; 
for, as Gideon was in such desperate trouble, 
the Blake family and their friends thought to 
comfort him by honouring his boy’s funeral. 
The action was meant in kindness; but I do not 
think that Gideon drew any consolation out of 
it. In fact, the crowd of people, relations and 
others, worried him whenever it forced itself upon 
his consciousness. 

As Mrs. Blake had said, scarcely anyone had 
seen him since the day of John’s death. He 
had shut himself up in his own room, or in the 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


181 


room where the child’s dead body lay, and ex- 
changed words with no one save Obed Pilcher. 
As to his work, that seemed to be completely for- 
gotten; but his father, who was extremely dis- 
tressed on his account, sent word to him not to 
come back to the yard until he felt inclined. Obed 
gave the message, but it was doubtful whether 
Gideon heard it. If his father had not given him 
his freedom just then, he would have taken it. 
He was beyond the binding of laws. 

Old Obed managed all the details of the child’s 
funeral. He felt that it would not do to trouble 
Gideon with them. Even to him Gideon did not 
speak. He seemed possessed by a dumb devil; 
he scarcely ate; and he slept very little — Obed 
could hear him pacing the floor of his room for 
hours at a time — and in the sight of others, at least, 
he did not shed a tear. But when the little coffin- 
lid had been finally shut down, Obed stood outside 
the parlour-door listening to the storm of sobs 
which shook the father’s frame from head to foot, 
as he knelt beside the coffin with his head upon 
the lid. Every sob seemed to pierce Obed’s heart 
with almost as sharp a pang as those which Gideon 


182 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


endured ; but tbe old man, too feeble now to be 
able to indulge bis grief in this passionate way, 
turned away from the door with shaking hands and 
head, and, going into the kitchen, sent Keziah out 
of the house upon some trivial errand, so that she 
should not hear and gossip about those terrible, 
gasping sobs. 

Gideon was hardly conscious at this time of 
the silent, wakeful love of the old man, which en- 
compassed and shielded him at every turn. But 
Uncle Obed was the only person whom he could 
bear to see, and he leaned upon him without know- 
ing it. 

Obed Pilcher had not much imagination, but 
such as he had made him nervous concerning the 
funeral. He would have been glad if Gideon could 
have been kept away from it, and thought that 
it would almost be an advantage if he were taken 
ill. Dr. Miller prognosticated an illness, and told 
the old man to be on the watch for symptoms. 
But Gideon was apparently well, although he 
looked white and haggard. His strength would 
bear a good deal of strain, and there were no signs 
as yet of its giving way. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


183 


Even on the day itself, when he insisted on 
carrying the child’s coffin on his knees in the 
mourning-carriage, he seemed perfectly composed. 
His face was like a mask — rigid, expressionless; 
hut for its almost deadly pallor it had not changed. 
He went through the ceremony with the same 
appearance of calm ; and even the presence of a 
crowd, and the curious though not entirely unsym- 
pathetic stare of his townsfolk, did not disconcert 
him. Possibly he did not even know that they 
were there. 

It was not then so much the custom as it is now 
to place flowers about the dead ; but on this occa- 
sion a great wreath of white blossoms was laid upon 
the little coffin just before it was lowered into the 
grave. Gideon, looking down upon it, never no- 
ticed who placed it there. Hot till long afterwards 
was he told that the flowers had been sent by 
Frances Lisle. She had reason — poor Frances! — 
to be sorry for herself ; but she could spare a crumb 
of sorrow from her loaf for Gideon Blake and his 
child. 

“ He looked pretty much as usual,” said Miss 
Lethbury afterwards. “Hot a tear nor nothing. 


184 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


Old Obed Pilcber was a sight to see, with the tears 
running down into his wrinkles, and sobbing when 
he ought to have made the responses ; and all the 
rest of the family, with white handkerchiefs at 
their eyes. But Gideon stood there, his arms 
straight down by his sides, and his eyes on the 
grave, just for all the world as if he didn’t care.” 

She did not understand the only signs of sorrow 
that Gideon knew how to make. His father, stand- 
ing beside him, knew better. He saw how “ the 
lad,” as he tenderly called him, swayed at one mo- 
ment, as if he would have fallen. He noted the 
dazed look in his eyes when the last words of the 
funeral service had been read ; and he whispered an 
emphatic warning to Obed as they returned to the 
carriages at the cemetery gate. 

“ See after the lad,” he said, “ or he’ll be off his 
head before long, poor chap ! ” 

And Obed nodded assent. 

When all the rites were over, and the friends 
departed from the desolate house, Obed ventured 
timidly upstairs to the room whither Gideon had 
betaken himself, with a strange fear at his heart. 
But Gideon was neither sobbing nor raving, nor 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


185 


had he cut his throat — which were the things which 
haunted old Obed as possibilities night and day ; he 
was simply standing by a chest of drawers, with a 
black bag in his hand. 

“ What art doing, Gideon ? ” said Obed, startled 
from his intention of saying a comforting word. 

“ Packing,” said Gideon. 

He rammed some articles hastily into the bag as 
he spoke. 

“ Packing, lad ? And for what ? ” 

“ I am going to London,” said Gideon, after a 
moment’s pause. 

It seemed as though he had hesitated whether to 
answer the question or not. 

Obed uttered a great cry. 

“ Hay, lad, nay ! Not to London — not to seek 
out those who have sinned, and make ’em suffer for 
their sin. Leave vengeance to God.” 

“You’re a good man, Uncle Obed,” said Gideon, 
with terrible gentleness, “and I know you mean 
well ; but you don’t understand.” 

“I’ll prevent thee!” panted Obed, laying his 
shrivelled hands on his nephew’s arm, as though he 
could detain him by main force. “ I’ll not let thee 


186 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


go. I’ll put the police on thee. She isn’t worth it. 
Gideon — the jade’s not worth it. Thee shall never 
hang for that little slut, Emmy Enderby.” 

Gideon looked very dark for a moment or two ; 
then his brow cleared, and he put his uncle’s hand 
away from him with a wan smile. 

“ You’re mistaken, Uncle Obed,” he said quietly. 
“ I’ve no intention of hanging for her, nor for any- 
one. I’m going to London on my own business, 
and you can’t prevent me.” 

“ I’ll swear the peace on thee. Thou bean’t fit 
to leave Casterby,” said Obed in haste. 

“ You’ll do nothing at all,” said Gideon, with a 
touch of the old imperiousness in his tone. “ I shall 
go my own gait, and you’ll leave me to it. Else 
you and I will have words, and part company, 
maybe.” 

It was a threat which reduced poor old Obed to 
instant submission. He could bear anything but 
dissension between Gideon and himself. He re- 
sorted to entreaty instead of denunciation. 

“ Thee wean’t get thyself into trouble, Gideon ? 
Tha’rt all I’ve got left i’ this world. Tliee’ll come 
back safe and sound ? ” 


OUT OF DUE SEASON.] 


187 


“ Ay, I’ll come back,” said Gideon, with me- 
chanical assent, and he went on packing the things 
into his bag, then shut it with a snap. 

“Thee wean’t be able to find her,” quavered 
Obed, in a lower tone. 

But Gideon only gave him a look in return. 
He was not going to betray his plans and purposes ; 
his mouth was shut fast — firm as marble. Obed 
sighed and was silent. He saw Gideon grasp 
his bag and go downstairs ; he followed him 
groaning. 

“ Ah’ll go wi’ thee to t’ station,” he said. 

“As you like,” Gideon answered, in an ab- 
stracted tone. 

The two men left the house and struck into the 
meadows, by which route they could avoid the 
highroad for some little distance. Neither of them 
spoke. They did not walk fast, but Obed groaned 
occasionally as though he were exhausted ; perhaps 
he had a faint idea of making Gideon lose the train. 
H this were so, Gideon divined his purpose, for he 
stopped short in the middle of a field and faced his 
uncle resolutely. 

“ This will do,” he said. “We’ll say good-bye 


188 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


here, Uncle Obed. I shall be late if I walk at this 
pace.” 

“ When wilt be back, lad ? ” 

“ Good-bye, Uncle Obed.” 

“Lad, thee’ll come back to me? For pity’s 
sake, doan’t leave me to die here alone, Gideon. 
I loved the little lad, too.” 

Gideon wrung his uncle’s hand ; perhaps it was 
impossible for him to speak. At any rate, he made 
no answer, but turned his back on old Obed Pil- 
cher, and swung off hurriedly to the station. Obed 
stood watching him, until the haze of distance and 
of approaching twilight hid him from view. Then 
the old man, looking ten years older, and more 
shaken than he had ever looked before, crept back 
to his desolate home. 

Gideon gave no account of the next two days 
to any man. It would have been almost out of 
his power to do so. There remained in his mem- 
ory only vague impressions of maddening gloom, 
of strange faces, of lighted streets and empty 
squares, of bewilderment unutterable, and a burn- 
ing desire of revenge upon the man who had in- 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


189 


jured him. He could not have told afterwards 
what he did with himself all day long. He slept 
at a quiet little hotel, the name of which he had 
learnt from his father, who had stayed there once 
or twice in his life; and in the daytime he wan- 
dered about the streets, haunted the Park, looked 
up at windows, vaguely hoping to see Emmy’s face 
at one of them. London in itself produced no 
impression upon him. Endless rows of houses, 
crowded pavements, a throng of strangers amongst 
whom he was for ever seeking the face that he 
knew — this was all that London meant for him. 

He had by some chance heard that Captain 
Hamilton had rooms near Bond Street. The clue 
was small enough, but it had been sufficient to send 
him to London and to cause him to haunt the 
West End. Probably neither Emmy nor Captain 
Hamilton knew that he had even this ghost of a 
clue. And, moreover, it was very unlikely that 
Gideon Blake would come across them, for Ham- 
ilton had made up his mind to take his companion 
first to Paris, and then to the South of France, 
so as to be out of the way of any “unpleasant- 
ness.” 


13 


190 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


Hitherto he considered that he had escaped 
" unpleasantness ” very fairly. He had managed 
to quarrel with Frances and break off that engage- 
ment before eloping with Mrs. Gideon Blake, with 
whom he considered himself quite romantically in 
love. In fact, he had lost his head over Emmy, 
he said to himself. And, after all, she was a mere 
nobody — a lout of a carpenter’s wife — and she 
would have gone off with somebody else, if not 
with him ; he was quite sure of that. She was of 
that pate ; she was not the woman to keep straight, 
and he might as well profit by her weaknesses as 
any other man. That was the way in which 
George Hamilton thought of Emmy. And he was 
responsible to nobody ; he had no relations to speak 
of, and if he chose to enjoy himself, why should 
anyone object ? 

The nuisance was that Emmy had no decent 
clothes. She wanted doing up all round. She had 
no boots, or gloves, or ribbons, let alone dresses and 
hats, that Captain Hamilton could walk out with. 
She must get herself a few things in London, he 
told her, and she should have a complete rig-out 
when they got to Paris. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


191 


He was sorry afterwards that lie had delayed 
even for those few days in London. Emmy left 
her home on the Saturday night, and John (al- 
though Emmy did not know it) died on Tuesday ; 
the funeral took place on the following Saturday 
afternoon. Captain Hamilton and Mrs. Hamilton, 
as he called her, meant to leave England on the 
next Tuesday. Emmy had wanted a new frock, 
and could not get it before Monday. She said that 
she was obliged to stay, and Captain Hamilton 
lessened the risk of being tracked by staying at a 
big hotel on the Embankment, instead of going to 
his old rooms in Ebury Street. 

It was a hundred to one against their being 
seen by Gideon — the unsophisticated countryman 
to whom all London streets were equally puzzlingly 
alike — even if he came to London in search of his 
missing wife. But it is the unlikely thing that 
happens. Hamilton took Emmy out for a drive 
on Monday afternoon, and as they were driving 
back to the hotel Gideon saw them from the pave- 
ment. 

They did not see him. Emmy was smiling and 
lovely, with a picturesque gray hat and feathers 


192 


OUT OF DUB SEASON. 


shading her exquisite little face, and a gray dress 
trimmed with soft gray fur, for the weather was 
growing cold enough for warm stuffs and trim- 
mings. She looked far prettier in gray than in the 
blues and pinks with which she used to be so fond 
of bedizening herself. Gideon saw her plainly 
for one moment — saw, also, the evil, cruel face 
beside her — and then the carriage had passed him, 
and he had lost — or nearly lost — his chance. 

He made a wild spring forward. He wanted to 
stop the horses, or to throw himself over the car- 
riage door and drag the villain from his place ; but 
his attempt was, of course, an utter failure. One 
or two men dragged him back, swearing at him for 
his temerity ; they thought he was only a country 
bumpkin trying to cross the road. Gideon shook 
them off, and set off to run, keeping the carriage 
steadily in sight. The horses were going slowly, 
and that was in his favour ; also they were at no 
great distance from the hotel. Gideon stopped 
short and watched as they left the carriage and 
entered the big portico. How that he could have 
confronted them, could have forced them to speak 
to him, he drew back, cold, sick, trembling, almost 


OUT OF DUB SEASON. 


193 


afraid. It would be easy to face him, but he could 
not bear to look Emmy in the face. He was 
ashamed for her — he would not cover her with 
shame and confusion before all the people who 
stood by. He would spare her that punishment, 
and never look upon her face again. But he meant 
to punish Hamilton. 

His desperation gave him cunning and courage. 
He hung about the building, and made friends with 
a commissionaire, who in turn introduced him to 
the boots when he came out with some luggage. 
Gideon soon learned that Captain and Mrs. Hamil- 
ton were staying in the house, but leaving for Paris 
on the morrow. The Captain generally went out 
for a stroll after dinner with a cigar. “ Hot a bad 
place for a stroll,” said Boots, indicating the Em- 
bankment with a nod and a grin. Gideon gave 
them some money to get rid of them when he had 
found out all that he wanted to know. Then he 
set him self to wait, within sight of the door, for his 
enemy. 

The daylight changed into gloom, and then into 
the glare of dim yellow light which came from the 
gas-lamps. The roar of the street surged around 


194 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


Gideon until it almost stupefied him. Cabs whirled 
by ; heavy omnibuses and vans lumbered slowly 
along ; a man with a track of fruit bawled his 
wares continuously in his ear. Gideon stood in a 
recess where he could see the people who came out 
and in. Visitors arrived with cabs laden with lug- 
gage; later on these arrivals became infrequent. 
There was a perpetual whistle for cabs from a 
stand over the way ; and then ladies and gentlemen 
in evening dress would come out of the big portico 
and drive away. Gideon became very much afraid 
lest the man he sought should escape him in this 
way. Not that he should not recognise him in 
evening dress, but that if Emmy was at his side 
Gideon feared that his strength would fail. 

But about ten o’clock, when Gideon had almost 
begun to despair, the man he sought came out of 
the hotel. He paused at the door to light his cigar, 
and in the glare of the lamps, Gideon noted every 
feature of the cold yet sensual face of his wife’s 
betrayer. George Hamilton was in his way a hand- 
some man, but he had always been a very self- 
indulgent one; he had never denied himself a 
pleasure that he could procure at any cost, in his 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


195 


life, and thirty years of unbridled and often vicious 
habits had left their imprint on the lines of his face. 
These were a little more apparent than usual when 
Gideon stood looking at him ; for he was not on his 
good behaviour, and he must have known in 
his heart that he had done a peculiarly mean 
thing. 

Gideon did not theorize, he did not even say to 
himself that Hamilton’s face was bad ; but he knew 
that he hated it with a vindictive hatred which 
made him long to see it lying in the dust at his feet. 
It was not in his mind to kill the man. He wanted 
rather to make him suffer, to see him writhe with 
pain and cry for mercy — to disgrace him in the 
world’s eyes and in his own. Life and death were 
not the issues in his mind just then, although he 
was hardly concerned as to whether Hamilton lived 
or died. 

Captain Hamilton lighted his cigar, and turned 
towards the Embankment, where he liked to take a 
short walk between dinner and bedtime. He had 
given up the slight nervous fear of meeting Gideon 
Blake which he had felt at first. Emmy had so 
impressed him with Gideon’s ignorance and stupid- 


196 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


it y that he did not think the young man capable of 
finding him out. 

There were not many people on the Embank- 
ment, but it seemed to Gideon that the broad side- 
walk was inconveniently full. At last he quickened 
his pace, and touched Captain Hamilton on the 
shoulder. Hamilton turned with a start. 

66 I want to speak to you,” said Gideon. 

Captain Hamilton’s face turned white. He 
looked round for help ; but no policeman was in 
sight, and for the moment the street looked de- 
serted. They were near a flight of steps leading 
down to one of the piers, and Gideon edged him 
steadily towards the wide square landing or bay at 
the head of the steps, where they were compara- 
tively secure from observation. It need scarcely be 
said that George Hamilton did not like this move- 
ment on Gideon’s part. 

“ I don’t know you,” he said, trying to pass him, 
and feigning non-recognition. “ I have nothing to 
say to you. I ” 

“ I said I had something to say to you” re- 
marked Gideon quietly. “You know who I am 
very well. My wife is with you now at that hotel. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


197 


No, you needn’t call out ; I’ll throw you over the 
parapet if you do. I came to London to tell you 
that you are a damned villain, and to give you — 
this!” 

It was a blow which felled Hamilton to the 
ground. He did not even cry out ; Gideon waited 
a moment, raised his fist to strike again, then let it 
drop to his side. He could not strike a man who 
did not resist. He was not a savage; he was an 
Englishman who believed in a fair fight, not in 
murder. If Hamilton had moved or cried out, 
Gideon would not have spared him. But a shape- 
less, motionless heap on the wet ground at his feet, 
what could he do to that ? 

“ Get up,” he said, touching him contemptuously 
with his foot — “ get up and take the rest of it. I’ll 
break every bone in your body before I’ve done 
with you.” 

The fierceness was rising within him ; although 
his voice was still low, it had a savage tone. He 
threw himself down, and turned the man round 
roughly, to see whether he had fainted or not. But 
Hamilton’s face was more ghastly than any that 
Gideon had ever seen. It wore a strangely livid 


198 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


hue, and the blood that had trickled from a wound 
upon his temple was already black and coagulated. 
The pinched look of the nose and mouth brought 
back to Gideon’s mind a picture of the dead body 
of his little child. So John had looked before they 
laid him in the grave. 

It was not that he renounced or regretted his 
plans of vengeance when he saw Hamilton lying 
thus before him, with the pallor of the grave upon 
his face. It was only that this remembrance of 
John’s white baby brow and sunken eyes, with their 
darkened lids, made him giddy and confused. He 
hardly knew what he had done or what he meant to 
do. Hobody had noticed the encounter ; nobody in 
passing seemed to see the dark heap with the up- 
turned white face upon the paved space at the head 
of the steps. Gideon turned his back upon it, and 
walked away. His mind was dazed, and he did not 
think of calling for help or of ascertaining Hamil- 
ton’s condition more precisely. He left the steps, 
and walked towards the City, not knowing whither 
he went or what he did. 

At midnight he found himself on a seat in one 
of the embrasures of a great stone bridge. He 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


199 


knew that it was midnight, because he heard the 
deep tones of a great bell sending its reverberations 
far and wide over the shimmering waters and the 
silent City streets. It was this sound which had 
roused him from the stupor into which he had 
fallen. He looked round him, and did not know 
where he was. It might have been another world? 
for anything he could tell. He had not seen any- 
thing like it in his life before. Below the bridge, 
and for some distance, he saw the dark and sullen 
water, studded with black shapes here and there — 
barges with lamps fixed to their prows, of which 
the ripples sent back a quivering reflection. Far 
away in the distance other lights could be seen — 
long rows of them in threes on either side the bank, 
and points of single radiance, red and white and 
green, at intervals. At one side a dim dome-like 
building broke the horizontal lines of roofs and 
banks. It was the bell of St. Paul’s that Gideon 
had heard. Above the river there was a cloudy 
sky, with no light of moon or stars ; but the night 
was fairly warm, although Gideon shivered where 
he sat. 

All the past broke upon him suddenly. He re- 


200 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


membered the years of bis married life — years of 
disappointment, sweetened only by the love and 
hope which John had brought into it — he remem- 
bered John’s death and Emmy’s desertion, and his 
own revenge. He looked down at his hand in dull 
amaze. “ I am a murderer ! ” he said to himself. 
He thought of the stir that would be made in 
Casterby when news came that he, Gideon Blake, 
was in prison for killing George Hamilton. Well, 
all who knew him would say that he was right. 
Only there would be the disgrace of prison, the 
punishment — for he did not doubt that he would 
be hanged — and the broken lives and hopes that 
would follow in its train. For the Casterby folk 
would never let the Blakes forget that one of their 
family had been hanged. They would have to 
leave the place where they had lived so long and 
been thought so well of. And Obed — old Obed — 
he would die of a broken heart. 

Was there any way out of it ? 

He looked over the parapet, and saw the dark 
waters glancing underneath. If he threw himself 
into the river and was drowned, would not every- 
body be thankful ? Then there would be no ex- 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


201 


posure, no disgrace. Hamilton would be dead ; 
Gideon would have disappeared, and there was an 
end. Emmy was nothing to him now. He could 
not believe that she had any claim upon him ; he 
shrank even from thinking of her. She must go to 
the workhouse, or beg her bread from door to door, 
he supposed ; he did not know what became of 
women like her. She could but fall to lower 
depths ; he, too, would fall lower if he lived — he 
the murderer, and she the harlot ! 

He shivered violently, and raised his head to 
look round. There was no one in sight. The po- 
liceman who had eyed him curiously two or three 
times was quite at the other end of the bridge. He 
lifted himself cautiously, and put his hands on the 
parapet, dragging his legs up on the stone coping 
so as to be ready for a spring. He knew that he 
must be swift, or he would be observed and stopped. 
He began to draw himself up into the necessary 
posture, when suddenly a strong hand seized his 
arm and pulled him back. 

“ That’s a dangerous amusement,” said a young 
strong voice. u What do you mean by it ? ” 


Yin. 

“ Because I seek Thee not, oh, seek Thou me ! 

Because my lips are dumb, oh, hear the cry 
I do not utter as Thou passest by, 

And from my life-long bondage set me free ! ” 

Gideon struggled for a moment, then suc- 
cumbed. The hands that held him were stronger 
than his own. He broke out in wild appeal. 

“Let me go!” he said. “For God’s sake, let 
me go ! There’s no place for me in this world. It 
would be the truest kindness to let me get out 
of it.” 

“ Why should you go to another world where 
there is also no place for you ? ” said the stranger. 

He was not much older than Gideon himself, 
and far less robust-looking ; but he had an alertness 
of glance, a resoluteness of manner, which ac- 
counted for Gideon’s submission. He was subdued 
by the moral power of the man, not by his physical 
strength. 


202 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


203 


“ I don’t care where I go,” Gideon answered, 
again striving to break away. “ I’ve come to the 
end of everything.” 

“ Even to the end of God’s mercies ? ” said the 
other man. 

Gideon uttered a fierce word of blasphemy. 

“ I’ve lost everything I care for in the world,” 
he went on. “ My boy’s dead ; my wife has left 
me ; I’ve just killed the scoundrel that enticed her 
away ; I shall be hanged ' for it if I give myself up. 
Don’t you think I should be better dead ? ” 

“ No, indeed I don’t,” said the new-comer. “ I 
should say you were about the last person that 
ought to die, and you’re coming home with me.” 

“ I — I come home with you ? I can’t,” said Gide- 
on ; but as he spoke he turned faint, and the whole 
world swam before his eyes. 

He staggered, and the other man, slighter and 
shorter although he was, seized him by the arm and 
obliged him to lean upon him until they got off the 
bridge. 

Gideon dimly remembered being helped into a 
cab, and then for a time he knew no more. 

He had a narrow escape of brain -fever. For 


204 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


several days lie lay in a strange, semi-comatose con- 
dition, unable to speak or think, and suffering 
frightful pain in the head, alleviated only by con- 
stant applications of ice. He was thankful, in a 
vague way, for the relief which was afforded him ; 
but he was not strong enough to ask whether he 
was in a hospital or a workhouse, or among friends. 
What friends, indeed, had he to nurse him ? He 
had not the energy to ask questions. He was only 
too thankful to lie still, and to feel the throbbing of 
his head become gradually less, in a darkened 
chamber, with soft, cool bandages upon his aching 
brow. 

Little by little he came to recognise his most 
constant nurse and visitor as the young man who 
had saved him from committing suicide from Black- 
friars Bridge. This young man wore in the house 
a narrow black gown, which Gideon was not learned 
enough to call a cassock, and almost any eye but 
that of an inexperienced country lad would have 
recognised the fact that he was of the priestly pro- 
fession. There was a look, a manner, that was un- 
mistakable ; but the gracious kindliness of the one, 
the somewhat ascetic refinement of the other, were, 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


205 


to Gideon, simply individual traits, and therefore 
the more fascinating. 

When he was well enough to consider the 
matter, Gideon contemplated the young priest with 
a curious mingling of sensations. Here was a man 
of his own age or thereabouts, whose whole life, as 
Gideon vaguely felt, was led upon principles so ut- 
terly different from his own that they almost alarmed 
and repelled him. There was an attraction about 
them too — or about the man, Gideon could not say 
which it was. He led a life of entire self-abnega- 
tion : so much was clear. The room in which 
Gideon lay was Father John’s own room — the 
young priest was styled Father John by everybody, 
and Gideon never inquired about his other name — 
and a bare, white-washed little room it was. Gide- 
on had Father John’s bed, and the priest slept con- 
tentedly on the floor. The sick man used to watch 
his host sometimes when he was thought to be 
asleep ; and nothing in his life ever amazed him 
more than Father John’s prayers at night and morn- 
ing before the black and white crucifix that hung 
upon the ugly white wall. Sometimes they were in 

Latin, and then Gideon went to sleep ; but when 
14 


206 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


they were in English, and said aloud, Gideon would 
listen as if he were in a wonderful dream. For it 
was to him like a dream, that a man should kneel 
down and talk to some unseen Power, and ask, not 
only for grace and help in general terms, but for 
individual gifts for individual persons, Gideon in- 
cluded, although the priest did not know him yet 
by name. 

“This man that I have brought home,” said 
Father John, in his specializing, half -familiar way 
— “ this man with the load of trouble on his breast, 
Thou, Lord, knowest how to help him better than 
I can do ; forget him not, O Lord, nor his sad and 
heavy burthen which weighs him down to the very 
earth with shame and pain and bitterness ” 

“How do you know?” said Gideon from his 
bed. 

Father John was on his feet in a moment, look- 
ing startled ; but only for a moment. 

“ My dear fellow,” he said in his ordinary tones, 
as he walked to the bed and re-arranged Gideon’s 
tumbled coverings, “I thought you were fast 
asleep.” 

“ I was wide awake, and I heard every word 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


207 


you said. How do you know anything about 
me?” 

“ Don’t you remember what you said to me on 
the night when I met you first ? ” 

“ I was on the bridge,” said Gideon slowly. “ I 
tried to jump into the river. You pulled me back. 
But I don’t know what I said.” 

“ You said Shall I tell you ? ” 

“ Yes, tell me,” said Gideon, turning away hi? 
head. 

“ That you had lost your boy — your own child, 
was it ? Ah, yes ! And that someone else — your 
wife — had left you. Perhaps all this was a 
dream ? ” 

“ Ho,” Gideon answered in a harder voice ; “ it 
was not a dream. And I killed the man — that’s 
all. I suppose I told you that ? ” 

“ Yes, you told me that.” 

There was a little silence, and then Father John 
said, with great sweetness and gentleness of tone : 

“ God help you, my friend.” 

“ It’s too late,” said Gideon gruffly. 

“ How can it be too late ? God’s mercies are 


infinite.” 


208 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“ Ay, that’s all very well,” Gideon said, trying 
to explain himself; “but what I mean is, that 
what’s done is done, and I shall never be clear from 
it again.” 

“ Clear from the feeling of guilt — the stain of 
wrong-doing ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I can’t get rid of that man’s 
face — on the Embankment. He had been alive a 
minute before. . . . He had done me a great 
wrong, but — all the same, it’s terrible to take a 
man’s life.” Gideon’s voice sank to a sort of moan. 
“ If there’s anything true in — in — your religion 
and all that,” he went on, “it means, I suppose, 
that I shall never see my boy again ? ” 

Father John was silent for a moment. 

“ Was that on the night I met you ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes.” 

“ I don’t remember hearing of any case of the 
kind— any mysterious death on the Embankment. 
Can you tell me where it happened ? ” 

Gideon tried to describe the place. He told the 
name of the hotel at which Captain Hamilton had 
been staying, and he told his enemy’s name ; but he 
did not tell his own. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


209 


“ W ill you let me make some inquiries?” said 
the kindly young priest. “ I have an idea that he 
may, perhaps, only have fainted. I will find out 
without saying anything about you.” 

Gideon assented hopelessly. He was perfectly 
sure that Hamilton was dead. 

The next day Father John came to his bedside, 
and smiled at him, then grew grave again and be- 
gan to speak. 

“God has been very good to you,” he said; 
“ He did not allow you to take your enemy’s life. 
Captain Hamilton has been very ill, but he is out 
of danger now.” 

“ Living ? ” said Gideon, starting up and then 
falling back again. “ He is alive ? ” 

“ Yes, he is alive. He was found soon after 
you left him, and carried to a hospital.” 

“ Is — she — with him ? ” 

“ I cannot tell you.” 

Gideon averted his head. 

At first the priest thought that his communica- 
tion had produced very little effect ; but presently 
he found that his patient was weeping. A great 
sob shook his gaunt shoulders now and then. The 


210 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


relief was almost more than lie could bear. He had 
hated George Hamilton, hut it was an awful thing 
to feel himself a murderer. Little by little he 
dropped out words and sentences that told the 
priest what he had felt. 

“ It isn’t that I’ve been afraid of punishment for 
myself; hut it’s the thought of one’s father and 
one’s friends. . . . Every night I’ve fancied myself 
in the dock, with the judge putting on his black 
cap, and my father and Uncle Obed sitting on the 
seats listening to hear him say ‘ hanged by the neck 
till you are dead.’ . . . And then, after that . . . 

‘ Thou shalt not kill.’ And my boy — I used to think 
I saw him looking down at me, and asking if I were 
a murderer . . . and stretching out his arms — in 
vain.” 

“You wish to see him again?” 

“ I’d go through hell to see him again ! ” cried 
Gideon, with a vehemence at which Father John 
involuntarily raised a protesting hand. 

But he saw that the young man meant no harm 
by it. His love for John was a weapon which the 
good priest laid hold of immediately for the good 
of Gideon’s soul. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


211 


It was no wonder that he expected to make a 
convert. But the time was not ripe for the discus- 
sion of ecclesiastical or theological points. 

Here was a soul in pain; a heart rent and 
broke ; a whole nature laid waste with passion and 
sorrow. What was there for Father John to do, 
but to speak of the comfort that faith can give, and 
the love of Father and Son for suffering humanity ? 
It was the first time that Gideon had listened to 
religious teaching since he was a boy. And there 
was a strange revelation to him of love and sym- 
pathy in the exposition of One who suffered all 
things for the sake of man, and met with cruelty 
and treachery in return. He caught his breath as 
he heard — was it not really for the first time ? — of 
“ that stupendous life and death,” of all that earth 
shuddered at and heaven grew black in witnessing. 
What did it mean for him — that supreme act of 
abnegation and of pity? 

The priest awoke in the night to see the man he 
had saved from suicide kneeling at the foot of the 
crucifix, outlined blackly on the whitewashed wall, 
and to hear the sobs that shook him like a reed. 
He was wise enough to say nothing and lie still. 


212 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“ God will speak to him,” said the good priest 
to himself, controlling the hot impatience to Kelp 
which tingled in his veins. “My words may do 
more harm than good. God will teach him in His 
own way.” 

And so perhaps He did ; hut it was not in the 
way that Father John expected. 

Gideon was up and dressed next day ; he was 
very quiet, almost apathetic in manner, and seemed 
scarcely to understand what was said to him by the 
little community of Catholic priests who had taken 
him in. They were very good to him. Between 
themselves, they speculated a little as to his name 
and station, and hinted to Father John that he 
should he brought to confession; but Father John 
shook his head and told them to give him time. Of 
course he was a heretic ; but a heretic with a curi- 
ous gift (so Father John thought) of assimilating 
what he was taught, even although he might have 
an equally curious incapacity for expressing it. He 
sat in the chapel sometimes with a look of entire 
absorption on his face, turned to the big crucifix 
that hung over the altar. “ It seems as if I had 
been here before,” he said once, when Father John 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


213 


spoke to him about his liking for the chapel. And 
the priest wondered whether the stranger might not 
some day take up his lot with them and change 
from carpenter to monk. 

But one day Gideon strolled in the walled gar- 
den which lay at the hack of the house, and heard 
the voices of children at play in the adjoining play, 
ground. The Fathers had a school and an orphan- 

f 

age, but Gideon had not as yet come across any of 
the pupils. He was very weak after his illness, 
which had been short but sharp ; and although the 
priests allowed him to wander about the house and 
grounds at will, he had taken but little notice of 
the arrangements of the place. ISTow, for the first 
time, the tuneful laughter of children’s voices 
struck upon his ear. He looked for a gate, found 
it, and stood in the playground, gazing spell-bound 
at the noisy, merry groups. These were the younger 
boys — little fellows from four to eight or ten years 
of age; and there was one with golden hair and 
dark eyes, who recalled vividly to Gideon’s mind 
the image of the boy whom he had lost. Gideon 
felt no disposition, however, to speak to the child. 
He only looked and looked, with a wealth of long- 


214 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


ing in his hungry eyes. And when the children 
had gone back to school, he sat down on a bench 
and thought. 

He thought of Casterby. For the first time he 
remembered that his father and his uncle did not 
know what had become of him. He thought of his 
father’s steady affection for him, of Uncle Obed’s 
absorption in him and his boy. What was the old 
man doing without him now ? His father had a 
wife and children, but Obed had nobody. And 
for the first time it came home dimly enough to 
Gideon that Obed had loved him as he had loved 
John — with the same blind, adoring love, and that 
he, Gideon, had made very little return for that af- 
fection. He had been friendlier with his uncle 
than with anybody else ; but he had never shown 
what he felt, it had not been his way. And per- 
haps Uncle Obed was enduring a share of the pas- 
sionate yearning for a beloved face which Gideon 
himself bore when he thought of his dead son — the 
child who had gone to a far-away heaven whither 
the father sometimes thought that he should “ never 
win.” 

He felt in his pocket for his purse. It was 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


215 


there intact, and still contained three pounds in gold 
and some silver. He laid it out before him and 
considered what he would do with it. 

He must get away. He must go back to Cas- 
terby. So much was clear to his still confused and 
beclouded mind. He had no wife, no child ; but 
he had his father and his uncle to see. It was not 
his love for them that drew him home again, but 
the consciousness of his love for John. Also he 
wanted to see John’s grave. 

For the mode of his departure, I feel that ex- 
cuses must be offered. He left the priests who had 
been so good to him without saying farewell. The 
fact was that his mind was not clear enough for a 
true appreciation of their kindness and their claims 
on his gratitude. And when, months afterwards, 
he came, as it were, more to himself, he was amazed 
and horrified to find that he did not know the name 
of the community nor the part of London in which 
it was situated. Probably it was near Hammer- 
smith, for his memories of trees and gardens, and 
the vicinity of the river, pointed in that direc- 
tion; but he was never sure. And the Fa- 
thers had scarcely known his name, nor the 


216 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


place whence he came nor his circumstances, and 
had no means of tracing him if they had wished 
to do so. 

Before he went he separated two sovereigns and 
a half from his little hoard, and wrapped them in a 
piece of paper on which he wrote a few words to 
Father John. “ I am obliged to go home,” he 
wrote. “ I thank you very much for your kindness 
to me. Perhaps you caii use the enclosed for some 
of the poor people you know. I am going back to 
my own people.” The letter was simply signed by 
his initials and addressed to Father John. He left 
it with the porter and walked away along the road 
which he had been told would lead to the heart of 
London. He inquired his way to the railway-sta- 
tion and took the next train to Casterby — all in the 
same common-place, spiritless way, and as if nobody 
in the world would be surprised at anything he had 
done. 

Father John read the letter and grieved over it. 
He thought that he had not done enough for the 
spiritual benefit of his protege. It was the nature 
of the man to blame himself, and not Gideon, 
against whom some of the other inmates of the 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


217 


house were moved to considerable wrath. “He 
might have told us something about himself in- 
stead of walking off in this way,” they said be- 
tween themselves. But Father John lay all night 
long before the altar, praying for the conversion of 
Gideon’s soul, and for the forgiveness of that fail- 
ure, that weakness on his own part, which had 
caused him to let the stranger’s soul escape. “ The 
blame is mine,” said the young priest sadly, as he 
went about his work next day and for many days 
thereafter. And he prayed that another chance 
might be given him — another day or hour in which 
he might plead with Gideon to give himself utterly 
and entirely to a better life. . . . But he never saw 
Gideon again. 

It seemed very strange to him to get out at the 
well-known little country station, and to walk down 
the road, with its green bordering of grass, to the 
High Street and the Market Place. The town 
struck him as dwarfed and stunted. But it was not 
looking its best on that November evening, with a 
mist rising from the river and a small drizzling rain 
steadily falling from the, clouds. Everything looked 


218 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


damp and mildewed and desolate. It was six weeks 
since Gideon went away. 

He did not go to his father’s first of all. He 
thought more of Obed, perhaps, than of his father, 
and he went to Obed’s cottage by the river. He 
did not meet anyone who recognised him on his 
way. As he turned down the lane he noticed that 
the river was very high, and that the meadows were 
half covered with water, and when he reached the 
garden-gate he saw that even the house had been 
assailed by the water. It was the one drawback to 
the houses by the river that they were sometimes 
visited by the floods, which were in wet autumns a 
source of danger, as they rose very rapidly and did 
considerable damage now and then. The garden- 
beds seemed to have been almost destroyed, and the 
water-mark was still visible on the walls of the 
house ; but evidently the place had not been aban- 
doned, for there was a light in one of the upper 
windows, and at sight of it Gideon’s heart throbbed 
with a new feeling of affection and — almost — of 

j°y- 

He knocked at the door — knocked twice before 
any answer came. At last the upper window was 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


219 


opened a little way, and Obed Pilcher’s gray head 
appeared. 

“ Who be ye down theer ? ” he asked. 

“ It’s me — Gideon. Will yon let me in, 
uncle ? ” 

“ Gideon / ” The old man’s voice rose to a 
shriek of joy. “ Gideon ! Lad ! ah thowt thee 
mun be dead. Wait thee, lad, ah’m coming — 
doan’t thee go away — ah’ve but to unbolt the door. 
Thee’ll waait ? thee’ll waait ? ” 

“ Of course I’ll wait, Uncle Obed,” said Gideon, 
with a strange new gentleness of tone. “ Don’t 
hurry thyself.” 

But in another minute he heard the old man 
hobbling downstairs and fumbling — probably with 
trembling hands — at the bolts and locks of the 
door. When it was opened, and Gideon stepped 
inside, he found himself literally in his uncle’s 
arms. 

“ Lad, lad ! Ah thowt thee dead, but ah knew 
that if thee was above ground, thee’d come back 
to owd Uncle Obed.” 

u Did you think me dead, uncle ? ” 

“Ay, that ah did, lad. And thou’s bin at 


220 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


death’s door, too, as ah can see by tha faace and 
eyes. Coom away in, an’ ah’ll get on my clothes 
and mak’ np t’ fire for tha : coom awaay.” 

“ Where’s Keziah ? ” said Gideon, following his 
uncle to the kitchen. 

“ Gone, lad — gone. Ah didn’t want no wim- 
min foalk about me; ah can fend an’ fettle for 
mysel’.” 

“ We’ll see about that,” said Gideon, with a 
touch of the old masterfulness, subdued, however, 
into a kindlier tone. “ Go and get into your 
clothes, and leave the fire to me. Or get back to 
bed, and I’ll come upstairs with you.” 

But his uncle would not agree to the latter 
proposition. Gideon was cold and wet, and must 
have something to eat and drink. So Gideon set 
to work to blow the embers of the fire into a blaze, 
and by the time old Obed came downstairs again 
in all the glory of his Sunday suit, there was a 
ruddy glow on the kitchen walls, and on the red- 
brick floor, with the rag carpet before the fender, 
and the kettle was already beginning to sing in a 
homelike, comfortable way. Gideon stood by the 
hearth, staring into the flames. The room might 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


221 


look cheery enough, hut where were they gone who 
used to make the brightness of the house ? 

Uncle Obed came up and shook him by the 
hand. He had not much to say, hut it relieved his 
feelings to work Gideon’s arm up and down like a 
pump-handle. Then he suggested that his “ lad ” 
should go upstairs and change his wet clothes while 
tea was being made. 

“ Thee’ll find all tha things as thee left ’em,” 
he said. 

Gideon said nothing, but went stolidly up to his 
own room. Obed bustled about the kitchen, set- 
ting out crockery and food; he heard Gideon’s 
steps in the room above him at first, then he 
became aware that they had ceased. The meal was 
ready, hut Gideon did not come, and all was silent 
overhead. 

“ Coom, Gid, supper’s ready,” said Obed, in a 
cheerful voice, as he stumped upstairs. But no 
answer came. 

The door of the bedroom was wide open, and 

the candle was flaring, for Gideon had placed the 

tin candlestick down on the chest of drawers and 

left it in the draught. It was a pretty little room, 
15 


222 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


decorated in Emmy’s taste with a good many pink 
ribbons and much white muslin ; but it looked 
spotlessly clean and fresh. John’s little empty cot 
stood between the big white-curtained bed and the 
wall. And Gideon had dropped down on his knees 
and hidden his face on the white counterpane of 
the bed, with his hands stretched out before him, 
clenched together — in prayer or agony ? 

“ Lord forgi’e me,” muttered Obed to himself. 
“ And ah sent him up here all alone.” 

He stood within the doorway, not daring to 
speak or move, not knowing whether to stay or to 
go. Gideon was perfectly still ; it was his motion- 
lessness that struck terror to Obed’s heart. 

But after a time he stirred. He lifted his head, 
drew back his hands, and rose. There was a look 
on his face which Obed had never seen before — 
the expression of one whose renunciation is com- 
plete. In some vague fashion, Obed Pilcher knew 
from that moment that his nephew was an altered 
man. 

“ Is that you, Uncle Obed? ” said Gideon, quite 
quietly. “ I won’t keep you waiting more than a 
moment. I’ll come directly.” 


OCJT OF DUE SEASON. 


223 


Tlien lie turned to the chest of drawers and 
began to take out some clothes. He had not yet 
begun to change. 

“ I’ll use Keziah’s old room,” he said. 

And he betook himself to that small apartment 
immediately. Obed did not venture to protest. 
And in perfect silence Gideon next day removed 
all his belongings to the servant’s former abode, 
and his uncle knew, as well as if he had been 
told .in words, that the room which Emmy and 
John had occupied was to be left untouched, un- 
tenanted. 

Gideon came down to supper with a grave, 
unmoved countenance, and spoke very little, but 
his manner to his uncle was, for him, curiously 
gentle. Obed poured out all the news of the town, 
but seduously refrained from asking questions, at 
any rate for a time. Questions came later, but the 
first thing was to make Gideon eat his supper. 

“ Is father well ? ” said the young man, as they 
sat by the kitchen fire after supper. 

Obed smoked a long clay; but Gideon, with 
his hands plunged in his pockets, had declined a 
pipe. 


221 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“ Eh ? Thou’st not seen him ? Ay, he’s mid- 
dlin’, but he’s fretted above a bit about thee, 
Gideon.” 

“ It’s too late to go and see him to-night,” said 
Gideon, looking up at the clock. 

“Well, mebbe. He looks kind o’ pined, thee’lt 
see. And wheer hast been, Gid, all this long 
while?” 

“I’ve been in London,” said Gideon, with his 
eyes fixed on the fire. 

“ Hot — not — in prison, lad ? ” asked the old 
man tremulously, with one deep-veined old hand 
laid heavily on Gideon’s arm. 

“Prison? Ho,” answered Gideon in astonish- 
men. “ I’ve been ill, or I should have come home 
sooner. But why prison ? ” 

“ Ah thowt,” said Uncle Obed in some confu- 
sion, “that they might ha’ tooken thee there for 
threshin’ that man. We heerd tell as he was found 
somewheers down by t’ river with his head stove in, 
and though it didn’t say i’ th’ paaper who did it, we 
all knew as it was thee.” 

“Ay, you were right,” said Gideon heavily. 
Then came a long pause. “ I well-nigh killed him,” 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


225 


he continued at length in trembling tones. “ I did 
my best. I should have been a murderer, Uncle 
Obed, if I’d succeeded. If I’d had blood upon my 
hand, would you have been so ready to take me 
in?” 

“ Ay, that I would, lad,” cried the old man ex- 
citedly. “ And would ha’ shook the hand as did it, 
too. There’s not a jury in the land as would con- 
vict thee for an act of justice like to that.” 

“You’re a Christian, Uncle Obed; you go to 
church,” said the young man inexorably. He had 
folded his arms on his breast, and his face was very 
stern and pale. “How can you tell me that it 
would be an act of justice to commit murder ? 
Whatever it might be in a jury’s eyes, you’ve got to 
consider what it would be in the eyes of — God.” 

He said the last words solemnly, the muscles in 
his cheek flinching as he did so, the only sign of 
effort that he showed. Obed sat amazed, staring at 
him. 

“ Lad,” he said at last, almost letting his pipe 
slip to the ground in his astonishment, and speaking 
very slowly — “lad, hast got religion while thou’st 
been away ? ” 


226 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“ I don’t know,” said Gideon. And then they 
sat in silence for a little while. 

“Well, well! ” exclaimed Uncle Obed at last, in 
a high-pitched, querulous voice, “ it’s the fust time 
i’ my life as ah’ve bin towd ah was not a Christian. 
Ah’ve been clerk this fowty year, an’ no one ever 
said that to me afore. An’ all because ah spoke as 
the nat’ral man ’ud speak, ah taakes it : because it 
seems a deal more proper that a man should foight 

the man as has maade his wife a ” 

“ Stop that ! ” said Gideon fiercely. “ I won’t 
have her called names. As to the man — I did fight 
him, as you say, and well-nigh killed him : isn’t 
that enough for you ? Did you want to see me on 
the gallows first, and damned to hell afterwards ? ” 

“ Nay, nay, lad — nay. Doan’t talk i’ that fash- 
ion. Ah’m not such a domned fool as that coomes 
to. Thou’rt right eno’. Me parish clerk, an’ preach 
murder ? Why, no ! An’ I’m downright thankful 
to see thee back, saafe an’ sound ; an’ thee mustn’t 
mind an’ owd man’s tongue, Gideon, nor catch’n 
up so fast.” 

“ I’m a fool myself, and a brute to say a hard 
word to you,” said the young man starting up, with 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


227 


a flusli on his face. “ Forgive me, uncle. Don’t 
think worse of me than you can help,” he said, 
standing with one hand on his uncle’s shoulder, so 
that the old man could not see his face. “ I’ve 
had a good bit to hear, you know, and sometimes 
I’ve been almost beside myself — with — with 
trouble. Else, I shouldn’t have stayed away so 
long. It was the thought of you, and — the boy, 
that brought me back. You shan’t lose me — as I 
lost JiimP 

The pauses between the words made them 
doubly significant. Obed Pilcher understood much 
more than Gideon could say. “ God bless thee, lad, 
for coming back ! ” he said in a hoarse undertone. 

“ I’ll not leave you again, uncle,” said Gideon, in 
a firmer voice. 


IX. 


“ Wer nie sein Brod mit Thranen ass ” 

The news of Gideon’s return soon spread far 
and wide. Between six and seven in the morning 
he was back at the yard, beginning his usual day’s 
work. His father met him with a close clasp of 
the hand and a long examining look, but he asked 
no questions, and it was not until the two were 
alone together, later in the day, that Gideon said an 
explanatory word. 

“I was ill in London. I wish I had written, 
but everything seemed to go out of my head. I 
never thought of it.” 

Joseph Blake nodded. He was looking worn 
and gray, but he had not the heart to reproach 
his son. 

“ Did you see — her ? ” he asked in a low voice. 

“ Once,” said Gideon, turning away his face. 

The father asked no more questions. He, too, 
228 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


229 


had heard of the mysterious attack on Captain 
Hamilton in London, and believed that Gideon had 
been the assailant ; but as Hamilton himself had 
refused to give information, and evidently wished 
it to be thought that he had simply been knocked 
on the head by a pickpocket, no public accusation 
had been made. Joseph Blake was the last man 
to ask Gideon painful or unnecessary questions, and 
he tried to shut the mouths of his wife and daugh- 
ter, but could not succeed. Where he failed, how- 
ever, Gideon succeeded by a sudden frown, a flash 
of his eyes, and a single word. It became under- 
stood in the family and in the town that Gideon 
was not to be questioned about his own private 
affairs. 

What was he going to do next ? the townspeople 
queried. They expected him to take to evil courses, 
now that his wife had left him and his child was 
dead. There was nothing, they said, to hold him 
back. He had always been a wild one at heart, 
and he would, no doubt, plunge headlong into 
excess and drink himself to death. “And there’s 
every excuse for him,” they said, with a pleased 
sense of assisting at a tragedy. It would round 


230 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


off the story so completely, to be able to say that 
“ the poor young man never got over it, and died 
of delirium tremens six months after his wife 
eloped,” — so completely and artistically, indeed, 
that Casterby waited with actual impatience to see 
the final act begun. 

But Gideon disappointed the Casterby people. 
It might be true to say that “ he never got over it ” 
— he never would get over it as long as he lived — 
but he showed no signs of taking to strong drink in 
consequence. On the contrary, it was rumoured 
that he had become' a teetotaler (which was not 
true), and that he did not even smoke. He took up 
his abode once more with IJncle Obed, and could 
not be drawn from his lair by* any attraction in the 
way of tea-parties. He and Obed led a very se- 
cluded life. Ho servant-girl replaced Keziah ; the 
two men lived alone, and Gideon did most* of the 
work in the early mornings or late at night. Obed 
Pilcher was growing too rheumatic and infirm to 
move about very much, and even spoke of relin- 
quishing his duties as parish clerk. Gideon cooked 
his meals for him, made the fires, chopped wood, 
and scrubbed floors like a veritable slave. His step- 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


231 


.mother was scandalized at seeing him engaged in 
snch menial work. 

“ It really isn’t respectable ; you should have a 
servant. It looks as if your own father didn’t pay 
you properly,” she declared. 

“ I’d sooner do it myself, if father doesn’t 
mind,” said Gideon in his deliberate way. 

He was a great deal more deliberate than he 
used to be, and very silent — even with Uncle Obed. 
Only when they were alone in the evenings, and 
Obed was smoking, Gideon would reach down a 
book and read aloud in the loud, monotonous voice 
that Obed loved to hear. 

The reading was of a serious turn. They had 
once tried a novel — one of Emmy’s brightly-bound 
volumes from the parlour shelves — but neither of 
them could stand the love-making scenes. Obed 
growled and pronounced them rubbish; Gideon 
stopped one night in the middle of one, and put the 
book back in its place with a nauseated air. They 
fell back upon standard books of travel and history, 
which Gideon procured from the town library, and 
they read the Bible a good deal. It was quite a 
new book to Gideon. On some evenings he cared 


232 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


to read nothing else. Then the “ Pilgrim’s Prog- 
ress,” which he had kept so long unread, fascinated 
him completely. Old Obed knew it pretty well, 
and patronized it as the work of a man who did not 
belong to the Church; but it gained a new charm 
to him when he heard it from Gideon’s lips. 

In the daytime the young man did his work 
soberly and seriously, without smiles, but also with- 
out the sullenness with which he had formerly been 
credited. His fellow- workmen did not know what 
to make of him. He had never been hail-fellow- 
well-met with them, but he had been in many 
respects as other men : ready for a drink, for a jest, 
sometimes for a blow. How all this was changed. 
He was almost always silent ; he neither drank nor 
jested ; and he worked as if he had no other interest 
in the world. What depths of feeling underlay the 
stern quietude of his demeanour, nobody guessed, 
unless it were Uncle Obed or his father, Joseph 
Blake. 

After working-hours, he devoted himself en 
tirely to Obed. But the old man was very frail, 
and never recovered from the shocks which little 
John’s death, Emmy’s flight, and Gideon’s sub- 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


233 


sequent disappearance had inflicted upon him. 
When the cold and dreary winter was over, and the 
crocuses were just beginning to lift up their golden 
and purple heads in the garden, Uncle Obed failed 
rapidly, and before Easter was gone. He slipped 
away in his sleep while Gideon was reading to him 
one night from the Gospel of St. John. 

“ Poor fellow, he’s left all alone now,” said the 
kindly, if somewhat careless, old Rector to his 
curate on the day after Obed’s funeral. “You 
might go and see him, Crewe; he seems a steady 
sort of young man. Perhaps he would like to be 
asked to teach in the Sunday-school.” 

Mr. Crewe went on his mission, and was civilly 
received, but he wished afterwards that he had not 
taken the Hector’s hint and spoken about the 
school ; for his proposition was received in a some- 
what singular way. 

“ Teach ! ” said Gideon, with a short, sharp 
laugh. “ Do you know whom you’re asking ? Do 
you know that I nearly killed a man not long ago, 
and tried to commit suicide directly afterwards? 
Is that the sort of teacher the Rector would like in 
his schools ? ” 


234 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


Mr. Crewe was not a ready speaker, and stam- 
mered ont something incoherent to the effect that 
Gideon’s mind had probably been unhinged just at 
that time by his great troubles. 

“ Nay,” said Gideon, looking at him with his 
dark, sorrowful eyes, which Mr. Crewe had some 
difficulty in forgetting when he got outside the 
house ; “ don’t you believe it, sir. It’s the fashion 
to say a man’s out of his mind when he tries to kill 
himself, or even when he kills another man ; but it 
isn’t always true. It wasn’t true with me. I 
knew what I was doing well enough. The devil 
had possession of me, body and soul. I hope he’s 
been driven out. But God knows I’m not fit to 
teach religion to innocent little children ; they’re 
much more likely to be able to teach me.” 

“ Anyone who feels as deeply on these subjects 
as you do ” 

“ I don’t feel anything in particular,” said 
Gideon. “ I only know the facts. I’m not fit to 
teach anybody — that is all ; I only wish I were.” 

“You come to church, don’t you?” said Mr. 
Crewe, whom Gideon puzzled exceedingly. 

“ Yes,” said Gideon slowly, “ I come to church ; 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


235 


and — if I may say a word — it seems to me we don’t 
get enough said to us about the evil in our own 
hearts, Mr. Crewe. Perhaps if we’d heard more 
about it, some of us might have — understood with- 
out such — such hard lessons.” 

His voice broke suddenly. lie had said more 
than he had meant to say, and was ashamed of it, 
with the natural recoil on itself of a reserved na- 
ture ; and also he thought of Emmy. She had once 
played at being a teacher in the school over which 
Mr. Crewe presided on Sunday afternoons. "What 
good had come of her teaching, he wondered, to 
teacher or to taught ? 

Mr. Crewe retired from the scene, half of- 
fended, half confused ; but he was a man of con- 
siderable sincerity, and he said, long afterwards, 
that nobody had ever influenced his sermons more 
than Gideon Blake. He fell into the way of 
preaching to the melancholy dark eyes that haunted 
him from a corner of the dim old church ; and if 
by chance he made them light up, he went home 
with a warmer feeling at his heart. He had helped 
one of his hearers, at least ; he had spoken to one 
person who cared to understand. 


236 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


Gideon’s own ideas were very indistinct at this 
time. He could not shake off a terrible depression, 
a horrible sense of wrong-doing and misery, which 
made life a burden. He prayed for help and com- 
fort as he had seen others pray ; but prayer 
brought him no relief. He was as one wandering 
in the dark, with nobody to show him the way. 

On Easter Sunday, it occurred to him to walk 
to the cemetery and see the graves of his uncle and 
his little son. He chose an hour when he thought 
that few visitors were likely to be there, and he was 
relieved to see that the cemetery looked almost 
deserted, although it was quite a popular place of 
resort on Sunday afternoons. One solitary woman’s 
figure in black could be seen at some little distance 
from the spot which Gideon wished to visit, and 
that was all. 

Someone had been before him. The graves 
were strewn with white flowers, placed in the form 
of a cross on each green mound. Gideon won- 
dered, and thought that perhaps Carry was kinder 
than she seemed. But these flowers were more 
beautiful than any that grew in Casterby gardens. 

As he mused and marvelled, feeling vaguely 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


237 


soothed by their sweetness, the quiet figure in black 
passed by him, paused, and passed again. He 
raised his eyes ; they fell on the pale, sweet face of 
the woman who had once been George Hamilton’s 
betrothed — who had been almost as much wronged 
by him as Gideon himself had been. He started, 
and felt his face grow hot, and hoped, with a dull 
anger at his heart, that she would walk on without 
speaking to him ; but, instead of that, she came 
nearer, and stood on the other side of J ohn’s little 
green grave. 

“ May I speak to you ? ” she said, in that sweet 
voice which still had the power of thrilling 
Gideon’s nerves. 

Gideon hastily and nervously raised his hat, but 
he could not speak Her presence recalled some 
cruel memories. 

“ I came here to say good-bye ; it is for the last 
time,” said ^Frances Lisle. “ I wanted very much 
to see you before I went away. I think God must 
have sent you in answer to my prayers.” 

“ You are going away ? ” said Gideon, stupidly 
enough. 

“ Yes ; I am going to Belgium.” Her eyes, 
16 


238 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


wistfully sweet, wandered to the furthest limit of 
the horizon, and remained fixed for a few minutes 
on the distant line of low-lying purple hills. “ I 
am going to he a nun.” 

“A nun?” said Gideon, starting back with 
the horror he had been taught to feel for 
women’s religious houses. “ Why should you be 
a nun ? ” 

“ Why not ? ” she said, her eyes coming back to 
his face with a gentle, serious look. “It is the 
most beautiful life. But I know you do not under- 
stand. Only I shall never, most likely, see you 
again; and I wanted so much to say one thing to 
you before I went. May I say it now ? ” 

“ Yes — anything.” 

“ That is kind. It is not much that I have to 
say, but it is hard to say it, too. Mr. Blake— some 
day you may be asked to forgive those who have — 
who have wronged you ” 

“Forgive!” cried Gideon. There was passion 
in his tone. 

“I was wronged, too. I have forgiven,” she 
said, looking him full in the face with her great 
gray eyes. He noticed how large they looked, how 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


239 


small and pathetic was the worn, white face, how 
patient the droop of her sweet curved lips, and he 
knew that even his suffering had not been bitterer 
than hers. “ That is partly why I am going into a 
convent. I hope to pray for him there — to pray 
for his soul.” 

Gideon was silent ; it was not possible for him, 
he told himself, to understand. 

“¥e can forgive in different ways,” said Fran- 
ces, catching at the reason for his silence. “I in 
my own way, you in yours. But some day you 
must — you must ” 

“ I shall not hurt him again, if you mean that,” 
said Gideon in measured tones. “ I tried to punish 
him once ; he is safe from that now. I know very 
well that if I had killed him I should have been a 
miserable man.” 

“ But more than that is necessary,” said the girl, 
in a strangely moved voice. u When I laid those 
flowers on your little boy’s grave, I prayed that I 
might see you again, but not that I might plead 
with you for George Hamilton’s life ! I knew that 
was safe. I want more than that— for your boy’s 
sake, and because you hope to see him again one 


240 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


day. You do not belong to tbe Church, but you 
hope — you want to see your boy again ? ” 

“God knows ” Gideon began, and then 

stopped short. He could not go on. 

“I plead for John’s sake, then,” said Frances 
Lisle. “ And I plead for God’s sake, Who cannot 
forgive us if we do not forgive. You remember 
what our dear Lord said upon the cross? ‘For- 
give them, for they know not what they do.’ 
That is what I say every day, every hour of my 
life : 6 They know not what they do ; forgive them, 
Lord, as we — as we — forgive.’ ” 

“They are safe — from me,” said Gideon, and 
turned away his face. 

“Are they safe from your hatred — from your 
bitterness of heart ? Oh, I know how hard it is ! 
I have no right to speak. But if one could turn 
one’s own pain into an atonement for their sin ; if 
one could weep for them and pray for them until 
their hearts were touched, they knew not why, and 
they turned to God and asked Him for that for- 
giveness which He never grudges to those that ask 
— then would not even our grief and suffering have 
been a paradise ? The greater the suffering for us, 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


241 


the greater the grace for them ! ” cried Frances, her 
face shining with the ecstasy of a vision that she 
deemed divine. 

“ Could that happen ? ” said Gideon, half sadly, 
half sceptically. “ I have read that no man can 
give his soul for another, or make atonement to 
God for him.” 

“ But you would do it if you could for one you 
loved ? ” said the girl, in a hushed voice. 

“ Ay, if I could,” said Gideon, looking down at 
the flowers on John’s grave. 

“ That is forgiveness,” said Frances. She held 
out her hand. “ I must go now. They are wait- 
ing for me at the gate. Good-bye, Mr. Blake. I 
shall always remember you — and those that you 
love. And in your heart you have forgiven — or 
will forgive ; I am quite sure of that.” 

Gideon held her hand for a moment, but he 
could not say good-bye. He watched her down 
the pathway until she was out of sight; then he 
knelt down by his boy’s grave. 

She did not know it, but she had transfigured 
the world for him. Into his empty heart she had 
put a living seed. Forgiveness, prayer — were these 


242 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


such mighty forces ? Then he had something to 
live for still ; he could love and forgive and pray. 

There came hack to him the history that he had 
heard read out in church on Good Friday ; he had 
not been touched by it then, he remembered, but it 
touched him now. The Man of Sorrows who hung 
bleeding and naked on a Cross, jeered at by the 
people whom He died to save, could still say, 
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what 
they do.” He was the Great Example : could not 
even His humblest follower do something of the 
same kind ? 

Gideon’s mind was very simple, very literal, in 
some ways. The thing that seemed true to him 
must be put into action if it were to continue true. 
He could, after a great struggle of heart, after an 
agonizing conflict between his natural emotions and 
his will, say to himself that he forgave his erring 
wife, and even, in some sense, the man who had 
led her astray ; but how could that forgiveness be 
brought into action in his daily life ? He could not 
seek Emmy out and beg her to return to him ; his 
common-sense told him that this mode of behaviour 
would be impracticable. She had gone abroad; 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


243 


she was probably happy in the evil of her life — 
triumphing, perhaps, in the way in which her hus- 
band had been befooled. He could do nothing 
directly for her benefit. 

But — “ to turn one’s pain into an atonement for 
their sin ” ! to pray until the sinners were forced 
into repentance ! Could this be done ? Ah, it was 
worth trying, thought Gideon, with a great break- 
ing-up of all the fountains of his soul: for what 
harm would it do even if it were worthless ? — and 
if it should avail anything — ah, what infinite gain ! 

His religious views, his notions of heaven and 
hell, were what the modem world agrees to call 
primitive and crude. He believed in a material 
hell, to which he saw himself hastening in the past, 
arrested by something like a miracle upon its very 
brink, whither Emmy was hastening now. Could 
he stop her ? Could he by any exertion, any sacri- 
fice, save her from the fires of hell? Ho thing 
would be too hard for him to do, if only he could 
“ touch the arm that moves the world ” and bring 
its exquisite, irresistible, compelling power to bear 
on Emmy’s heart. Emmy’s frivolous little prefer- 
ences, Emmy’s hard little personality, were for- 


244 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


gotten, absorbed in a great rush of love for what 
lay behind the shell-like exterior. A soul to be 
saved — a beautiful, precious, immortal soul : Emmy 
was that, and Gideon could not hate and despise 
her any more, although she had betrayed him, and 
outraged her womanhood, and thrown away her 
woman’s purity. 

The thought that he could help her changed his 
life. It became henceforth, most emphatically, a 
life made up of prayer. It had already been the 
life of an anchorite. How, as soon as his work 
was over, Gideon hastened to shut himself up in 
his lonely house and expend the long hours in sup- 
plication for Emmy’s soul. A roughly-fashioned 
crucifix hung on the wall in the bare room he occu- 
pied. On the floor before it he knelt or lay for 
hours, praying with tears and cries that Emmy 
might be saved from the evil to come. Thence it 
was a short step to more stringent and more pain- 
ful measures. The passion of penance took posses- 
sion of his soul — for his own sins partly, but chiefly 
for those of the woman that he loved. And for 
her sake he suffered in the flesh as in the spirit — 
for Emmy’s sin. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


245 


The world would have called him mad. His 
own little world of sordid commercialism; the 
Rector’s comfortable, easy-going Christianity; the 
would-be intellectualism of the Unitarian meeting- 
house — all would have joined in condemning him. 
Perhaps even Father O’Brien, with whom, although 
he did not know it, Gideon was most in sympathy, 
would have shaken his head dubiously over the 
young man’s vagaries. “ For it is not,” as Thomas 
a Kempis says, “ it is not after the way of man — to 
fly honours, to be willing to suffer reproaches, to 
despise self and choose to be despised, and to desire 
no prosperity in this world.” And it is not accord- 
ing to most men’s taste to fast as Gideon did, to 
tear his flesh by scourges, to wear strange con- 
trivances of wire and cord which took the place of 
the hair shirt which he had never seen, to conceal 
a heavy chain about his waist, and to bear cold and 
discomfort and bodily pain with a wonderful en- 
durance which came less from the thought that 
there was merit for himself in what he did, than a 
possible expiation for Emmy’s wrong-doing, a fore- 
stalling of Emmy’s repentance for her sin. 

Morbid and mad the modern world would call 


246 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


him, yet not unhappy, even when the reddened 
scourge dropped from his nerveless fingers, and he 
lay at night with bare and bleeding shoulders 
before the cross, breathing out shuddering, ago- 
nized prayers — for Emmy — into the silent night. 
Yes, it was all for her. That thought gave ecstasy 
to every pang of pain. And for himself — why, he 
was ready to suffer an eternity of woe if he could 
but purchase heaven for her. It was a heathen 
conception of his God’s requirements, perhaps, and 
one not recognised exactly by any form of faith ; 
but it kept Gideon Blake from misery. And he 
did not think of the dead priest whose nature he 
had in some odd way inherited, as we all inherit 
from unknown generations of the dead, nor ever 
figure to himself that there had once been a man of 
his name and his blood who also agonized for his 
soul and the souls of others before the cross, and 
who — happier than Gideon — breathed out his last 
prayer amid the flames that sealed a martyrdom. 

Gideon, obeying the law of his own nature, 
thought nothing of the law of heredity. If he had 
found no way of suffering for Emmy, or thinking 
that he suffered for her, he would have gone out 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


247 


of his mind completely. But self-sacrifice, even of 
the most fantastic kind, consoled him, and steadied 
his whole nature. He could not be utterly mis- 
erable when he could pray and suffer for her sake. 

And thus the years went by. 


X. 

“ Let no man dream but that I love thee still.” 

Joseph Blake was becoming more and more 
invalided by rheumatism — that scourge of all who 
lived for many years at Casterby — and greater re- 
sponsibilities therefore rested on Gideon’s shoul- 
ders. In spite of the absorption of one side of his 
nature in purely spiritual matters, Gideon was by 
no means a bad man of business ; he was certainly 
not enterprising, but he was conscientious and 
hard-working, and it was well known that anything 
he undertook would be faithfully carried out. His 
father had once been afraid that Gideon was of too 
impracticable a temper to succeed as a master of 
other men ; but of late years, as the change in his 
character became manifest, it was found that Gid- 
eon was liked as well as respected. He was scrupu- 
lously just ; he was strict indeed, but he was fair, 
and in times of trouble generous ; he never lost his 

248 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


249 


temper, although he could say a word of keen 
reproof now and then, and he set the example of 
unfailing industry and punctuality. Joseph Blake 
triumphed a little over his wife in pointing out 
Gideon’s virtues to her. 

“ They used to call him a black sheep,” he said. 
“ "Who’s got a son like him in Casterby, I’d like to 
know ? ” 

“ I’ve nothing to say against Gideon,” re- 
sponded Mrs. Blake ; “ but I must say I think he’s 
very queer. He’s that unsociable — you never can 
get him to go anywhere or take a cup of tea or any- 
thing. If I’d been him, I would have got a divorce 
from that wretched woman and married some nice 
girl, and had a family round me by this time.” 

“ Gideon don’t hold with divorce,” said Joseph 
doubtfully. “ I heard him say so just after it all 
happened. ‘I’d never feel but what Emmy was 
my wife,’ he said, and wouldn’t hear of anything 
else.” 

“ He’s very odd in his notions,” said Mrs. Blake, 
tossing her head. “ I think he’s got a tile loose, as 
people say. For my part, I think it’s sheer crazi- 
ness to be so religious.” 


250 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


And the world mostly agreed with her. 

If he had not been such an excellent man of 
business, Gideon would certainly have been pro- 
nounced a little mad by his fellow-townsmen. He 
did not talk about his religious faith, nor about his 
vigils, and fastings, and penances ; but rumours of 
them got abroad, as rumours will get abroad in little 
country towns. They made him a remarkable per- 
son in the eyes of the Casterby people, one of 
whom strange things were to be expected at any 
moment. There was a little suspicion of him, even 
as a business man, and if he had shown one sign of 
over-cleverness, or given one hint of a speculative 
turn, he would have lost ground at once and com- 
pletely in their opinion of him. But Gideon was 
so steadily humdrum and commonplace in his way 
of conducting his business, so absolutely without a 
spice of the adventurous, so content to plod along 
the common way, that he won approval and consid- 
erable confidence from his father’s friends. 

There was a sale of timber in the North, which 
J oseph Blake had been anxious to attend ; but he 
was too lame to attempt the journey when the date 
drew near. Gideon had to go in his father’s stead. 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


251 


The young man accepted the charge of the trans- 
action with his usual gravity and habit of attention 
to details ; he listened carefully to all the instruc- 
tions his father gave him, and Joseph Blake knew 
that they would all be most conscientiously carried 
out. But for once he grew a little impatient with 
Gideon. “ The lad,” as he still called him, showed 
no real interest in the matter. 

“ Your heart ain’t in this business, Gid,” he said 
reproachfully. “ I wish you’d waken up a bit.” 

Gideon gave a slight start. 

“ Don’t I satisfy you, father ? ” 

“Eh, lad, you’re as good as goold. But the 
spring’s gone out of you. At your age, I’d ha’ 
thought of putting on my best coat, and having a 
good time at York. I don’t grudge the money. 
Go to the best inn, have a smoke and a chat with 
the travellers, see the world a bit and enjoy thyself. 
It would hearten me up again to see thee do it.” 

“ But — I shouldn’t enjoy it, father,” said Gideon 
with scrupulous gentleness. 

“ That’s the worst of it. Why shouldn’t you ? 
I don’t think much of your religion if it makes thee 
so gloomy, lad.” 


252 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


Gideon stood looking at his father, as if uncer- 
tain what to reply. Joe Blake stared hack at him, 
with a vague sense of uneasiness and inarticulate 
sympathy. He noticed that his son’s great frame 
was gaunt and thin ; that his cheeks and temples 
had fallen into hollows, and that his bent eyebrows 
seemed to betoken suffering. And yet he knew 
that Gideon was not ill. He could do twice as 
much work as any man in the yard; his strength 
had increased, not diminished, of late years. But 
there was the stamp of pain upon his face, and an 
unutterable sadness in his eyes. 

“ It’s not religion that makes me gloomy,” said 
Gideon, at last, making an effort over himself. 
“ It’s the thought of — other things.” 

“Ay, ay! that’s all very well, Gid. But 
you can’t save a bad woman by fretting about 
her.” 

Gideon put out his hand. “Don’t say things 
against her, father. It cuts too deep.” 

“Eh, does it hurt still, my lad?” said Joe 
Blake, in a half-pitying, half-deprecatory tone. 
“You’ve had a mort o’ trouble over a worthless 
lass. But there, I’ll say no more. It’s just this — 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


253 


that a trouble like yours didn’t ought to be the be- 
all and end-all of your life.” 

Gideon raised his heavy eyes to his father’s face. 
“ I’d give the whole of my life if it would do her 
any good,” he said. 

“ Ay, but it won’t,” said his father rather sharp- 
ly. “It’s wasting your youth and strength for 
naught.” 

“Hay, not for naught,” said Gideon, turning 
away, “ so long as there’s a God in heaven.” 

He seldom said so much, and his father grunted 
out a “ Well, well, well ! ” as if he wanted to put am 
end to the conversation. But Gideon had not done. 
When once his tongue was loosed, there was a good 
deal that he could say. 

“ She’s a poor lost soul, I know,” he said, in the 
deep tones which could be soft as well as deep when 
he was greatly moved — “ a lost lamb, straying on 
the mountains, where nobody can go after her nor 
find her but the blessed Lord Himself. Do you 
think I can leave off beseeching Him to find her and 
bring her home, until it’s done ? There’s not much 
room in the world for joy and pleasure to me while 

she is still astray. I can never forget that I cared 
17 


254 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


for her : I care for her still. And there’s no rest 
for me, no happiness, as the world counts happi- 
ness, until she’s found.” 

“ Do you mean you’d bring her back to Cas- 
terby ? ” gasped Joe Blake, in consternation. 

“ I don’t know,” said Gideon slowly, “ as I’d 
ever thought of ways and means. I leave those to 
God. If ever the time comes, I shall be told what 
to do.” 

He went away, leaving his father still shaking 
his head over these extraordinary notions. Joseph 
Blake was troubled for a day or two with the 
thought that they must needs unfit his son for the 
ordinary affairs of life, and that business would be 
badly performed in consequence. But he found no 
evidence of carelessness or incompetence in the 
work which Gideon undertook to manage about 
that time. 

The journey to York was made, and the busi- 
ness performed. Gideon stayed three days and 
nights, and took the express back to Betford, 
whence he could easily return to Casterby. About 
half-way to Betford, as lie was sitting in one corner 
of a third-class railway carriage, looking quietly out 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


255 


at the brown and yellow tints of the landscape — for 
it was autumn again, and the leaves were dropping 
from the trees — the accident happened which thrilled 
the country from end to end, and filled the news- 
papers with harrowing accounts of the injuries in- 
flicted and the agonies suffered by the survivors. 
But Gideon escaped unhurt. 

It happened very swiftly, very suddenly. There 
was scarcely time for fear, before it was practically 
all over. Another train ran straight into the ex- 
press, cutting some of the carriages into bits, scald- 
ing the engineers to death, setting fire to the frag- 
ments of the train. Night was beginning to fall, 
and the gathering darkness added to the horrors of 
the scene. Gideon, with other passengers who were 
not hurt, set to work gallantly to extricate the in- 
jured and to extinguish the flames. But their task 
was dangerous and difficult, and some time elapsed 
before medical assistance could be procured and the 
sufferers conveyed to the nearest hospital. 

Gideon toiled like a giant and a hero. His 
heart was rent by the sights he saw, by the cries of 
agony that he heard, but the pity of it spurred him 
on to almost superhuman exertions. In one or two 


256 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


cases, even his great strength would not avail to free 
some poor creatures from the crushing mass of wood 
and iron that pinned them down to agony and 
death, and all he could do was to breathe a prayer 
into the ear of the victims, and solemnly commend 
a passing soul to God, before turning away to help 
those who could be helped. He forgot his reserve, 
his self-consciousness, in a scene of this kind. Other 
men looked at him with wonder and admiration, 
even where all were brave and strong ; women and 
children called to him for help, as if they knew that 
the weak ones of the earth had the first claim with 
him. It was amongst the third-class carriages that 
there was most to be done, for there had been a 
merry-making of some kind at Grantham, and 
dozens of country folk were returning to their 
homes by the afternoon train. But when most of 
these had been disposed of, Gideon thought that he 
heard a cry from the wreck of a first-class carriage 
a little further down the line, and he turned in- 
stinctively to look — and help. 

“For God’s sake, come here!” an imperative 
man’s voice demanded. “ Nobody’s been here yet. 
I shall be killed before I can be got out ! I’ll give 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


257 


you twenty pounds to get me out — I can’t stir a 
limb ! ” 

He sank back with a groan of pain. 

“ Are you hurt much, sir ? ” said Gideon, ap- 
proaching him. 

“ My leg’s broken, I think, and my side seems 
hurt ; but if you could get me out of here, I might 
feel better. I heard them say that the express 
might come up at any moment.” 

“ Oh, we’ll get you out of here before that hap- 
pens,” said Gideon. “ Besides there are men sta- 
tioned along the line here to stop the express.” 

“ But the fire is breaking out again,” said the 
passenger anxiously. “ Look — over there ! Can 
you move that piece of wood? Why didn’t you 
come before ? ” 

He spoke as if he had a right to command, but 
Gideon took no notice. The man was in pain, and 
he was frightened, too. Indeed, his position had 
been one of considerable danger, for he was near 
the smouldering engine, and jets of steam and flying 
cinders had excited his fears to frenzy. 

“ Is there no one else to help,” he said. “ You 


can’t do it alone.” 


258 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


“ I think I can. The other men are busy.” 

He bent down and applied his great strength to 
the fallen mass of wood which lay across the pas- 
senger’s limbs. A jet of dame, suddenly springing 
up from the smouldering debris close by, threw a 
lurid red light across the scene. Then, for the 
first time, Gideon saw the passenger’s face. 
The voice had told him nothing, for it was al- 
tered with fear and pain, but the face was un- 
mistakable. 

Human nature is strong in a man even after 
years of repression and conflict. Gideon stopped 
in his work. He had not yet moved the heavy 
load, but he drew back and raised himself erect 
without making any further effort. The move- 
ment was purely instinctive — it was natural to him 
to shrink back from George Hamilton — but it 
looked as though he had relinquished all intention 
of helping him. George Hamilton thought so, as 
the red light flashed on Gideon’s gesture of re- 
pugnance and withdrawal. But he did not 
recognise the face. 

“ Damn you, why don’t you move it ? ” he 
broke out savagely. “ You’re strong enough ; are 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


259 


you afraid ? You said there was plenty of time ; 
why don’t you make haste ? ” 

“ You have forgotten me,” said Gideon quietly. 
“ You knew me once, Captain Hamilton.” 

Then the man saw and understood. He uttered 
a sharp cry of terror, and struggled vainly to free 
himself from the detaining load. 

“Help! Will nobody help?” he shouted as 
loudly as he could. But his voice was too weak to 
be heard at any distance, and Gideon stood above 
him, a giant figure in the lurid gloom, blocking the 
way. “ You villain ! you want to be my death ! 
You tried to kill me once ; are you going to try it 
again ? ” Then, changing his tone, “ Heavens, 
man, do you see the flame creeping this way ? Do 
you want me to be roasted alive before your 
eyes ? ” 

Ho, Gideon did not want that. But he felt 
strongly impelled to walk away and give the 
wretched man full three minutes of misery until he 
could send other people to his help. It was far 
from him to condemn even his worst enemy to such 
a death as the one that crept nearer every moment 
to the fallen man. But Ihe old hatred leaped out 


260 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


like a wild beast, and Gideon knew in his heart that 
he would sooner cut off his right arm than use it 
to save George Hamilton. 

It was a keen temptation. Hot to kill him, but 
to refrain from rescuing him with his own hands — 
that was all. For a moment he asked himself why 
he should be called upon to save George Hamilton’s 
worthless, wicked life ? 

But it was for a moment only. The swift 
recoil of repentance followed instantly. He turned 
back and threw his whole strength into an attempt 
to move the weight. Hamilton watched his move- 
ments with pallid face and shrinking eyes. He was 
not sure whether Gideon Blake did not mean to 
beat his brains out where he lay. 

The flame crept nearer. Hamilton could feel its 
hot breath on his face — it almost singed his hair. 
But the great weight stirred, moved, was driven 
back, and then he fainted and knew not how he 
was drawn away, nor how the succour came to him 
only just in time. 

When he recovered consciousness he was lying 
on the ground at some little distance from the scene 
of the accident, and Gideon was holding brandy 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


261 


to his lips. He swallowed a little, and looked round 
him somewhat fearfully. 

“You are quite safe,” said Gideon. “They 
have gone for a stretcher to carry you to the cot- 
tage hospital at X . The doctors will look after 

you there. They asked me to wait with you till the 
men came hack.” 

He spoke in short, grave sentences, as if saying 
only what duty required, and then became silent. 
Hamilton looked at him with questioning, awe- 
stricken eyes. 

“ You — you have saved my life, I suppose,” he 
said awkwardly. 

“ I tried to take it once,” was Gideon’s slow reply. 

“ If I can do anything for you — any recompense 
—any ” 

“I think you had better say no more. You 
must know it is not possible for me to take any- 
thing from you.” 

Hamilton groaned, and turned away his face. 
Perhaps he came nearer to repentance at that mo- 
ment than at any other of his life. 

“ Tell me one thing,” said Gideon, in a low, hur- 
ried voice. “ She was not with you ? ” 


262 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“Good heavens, no! I haven’t seen her for 
two years.” 

“ Where is she ? ” 

“I don’t know.” 

“What, have you left her to starve?” said 
Gideon, in a stern, passionless voice. “ After ruin- 
ing her life — and mine, did you turn her out into 
the streets?” 

“ She left me of her own accord — I swear she 
did,” Hamilton answered eagerly. “If I knew 
where she was, I would tell you — though I don’t 
suppose it would give you any satisfaction to 
know.” 

He glanced at Gideon’s face ; it was very pale, 
and the lips were quivering. Hamilton felt a pang 
of shamed regret. 

“ I — I’m very sorry I can’t tell you more,” he 
stammered out. 

“ God forgive you,” said Gideon, turning aside. 
He could say no more. “ God forgive me, too,” he 
added to himself. 

His very love for his wife, his hopes, his fears, 
his struggles, made it hard for him to speak to the 
man who had compassed her shame and his misery. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


263 


Yes, lie had saved his enemy’s life, hut his strength 
failed him to do more. Later, on the heights of 
a self-abnegation which was almost sublime, he 
blamed himself for not saying more, for not making 
some effort to bring home to Hamilton’s heart the 
truths for which he himself was ready to lay down 
his life. But just then he had done as much as he 
was capable of doing, — and it was more than most 
men would have done. 

Hamilton was carried away to the hospital, and 
Gideon occupied himself for the rest of the night in 
ministering to the hurts of those who were less seri- 
ously injured, but still required care. In the early 
morning he heard that one of the railway porters 
was inquiring for him, and he went out of the cot- 
tage where he had been tenderly nursing a child 
whose back was hurt, and found a man. waiting for 
him at the door. It was one of the men who had 
carried Captain Hamilton away. 

“ You’re the chap as pulled the gentleman out, 
ain’t you ? He’s sent you this, mate,” said the por- 
ter, thrusting a note into Gideon’s hand. 

Gideon looked at it with distrust. “Wliat is 


it ? ” he asked. 


264 


OUT OF DUB SEASON. 


“Dunno. A five-pun note, mebbe. Open it 
and see,” as Gideon made a movement as if to give 
it back. “ Law bless you, I don’t know wbat ’tis.” 

Gideon opened the letter. To bis relief, it con- 
tained no money, nothing but a few words scrawled 
in pencil on a half-sheet of paper : 

“Miss Violet Leslie, 

191, Coleman Street , 

Westminster , 

London , W. 

“ Try this address— G. H.” 

Gideon stood looking at the paper. What did 
it mean ? His mind, dazed with excitement and 
want of sleep, did not move quickly. Who was 
Miss Yiolet Leslie ? And why should he try that 
address ? 

“ Nothing but a word o’ thanks, I s’pose,” said 
the porter. “ Them ’igh chaps is sometimes raight 
down mean. He moight ha’ been burnt to a cinder 
if you hadn’t come along in time. Doctor says it’s 
nobbut a broken leg and a rib or two, and he’ll soon 
put him straight.” 

“ All right ; thanks,” said Gideon, turning away. 
He went back to the child, who was already crying 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


265 


out for liis strong arms, and lie sat and nursed her 
until she was taken away in a cab to the nearest 
town by her father. Her mother had been killed 
in the accident. 

When he had done all that was required of him, 
and a good deal more (including a narrative of the 
accident to a reporter, who published it that evening 
with a number of sensational additions of his own 
composition), Gideon tramped to the next station 
and took train for Ketford and Casterby. He was 
shocked to see his father waiting at the station, 
haggard and trembling, and scanning every face at 
the windows as he sought news of his son. 

Gideon jumped out. “Father, I’m all right. 
I’m here.” 

“Thank God! — I thought you might be hurt, 
Gideon.” 

“ I was a fool not to telegraph. But I never 
thought you would hear so soon, and I was busy 
helping the other folk.” 

“I’ll be bound you were. And you’re not 
hurt?” 

“ Hot a scratch. But I’m black as a coal.” 

He was certainly very grimy, and walked stiffly 


266 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


from fatigue ; but there was more alacrity in his air, 
more light in his eye, than usual. He looked as if 
some new hope had come to life within him. 

Old Joe Blake put it down to the stimulus of 
danger, and looked at him with admiring wonder- 
ment. 

Gideon stumbled down to his house and went to 
bed. In spite of his excitement, bodily fatigue 
made him sleep for some hours at a stretch ; and 
when he woke up, it was to find himself famous, 
or at all events popular, for the first time in Cas- 
terby. 

He had never given his name, and did not con- 
sider that his deeds were worthy of record ; but, as 
it happened, he was known by the officials on the 
line, and “ Mr. Gideon Blake’s great strength and 
marvellous courage” had been chronicled by the 
ubiquitous reporter, and been transmitted to every 
paper in the country, much to the satisfaction of 
Casterby and the confounding of Gideon himself. 
People turned to shake hands with him in the street, 
and to ask him details of his adventure. He told 
them that he had only done what any other man 
would have done, and tried to break away from 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


267 


their congratulatory looks and words ; but the fa<?t 
remained that many of the rescued passengers 
owed life or limb to his strength and his endurance, 
and were not slow in rendering him the tribute of 
their gratitude. He devoutly hoped that Hamilton 
at least would say nothing about their meeting ; hut 
even this could not be kept a secret, although the 
story did not creep into the newspapers. 

“ What’s this about Hamilton, Gid ? ” said his 
father to him a day or two after his return. 

Gideon’s pale face flushed. 

“What do you mean?” he said, frowning a 
little, though not angrily. 

“ There was someone of that name in the acci- 
dent. Was it — the same ? ” 

Gideon nodded. 

u They say you saved him. W as that so ? ” 

Gideon was silent for a moment. 

“ If I did, it was after a delay that might have 
cost him his life and made me a murderer after 
all,” he broke forth almost defiantly. “ It was no 
credit to me. Don’t speak of it, father, if you 
please.” 

“ Ho credit to him ! ” muttered the old man, as 


268 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


he watched Gideon cross the yard and begin to use 
his tools again with an energy which showed that 
he did not wish to be questioned. “ ]STo credit to 
him to save the life of a man who has injured him 
in that way, does he say? "Well, I don’t think I 
could have done it myself — I don’t think I 
could.” 

The story got wind in Casterby, but it was re- 
ceived in different ways. Some people thought 
that, as Gideon had said, it did him no credit. It 
seemed a work of supererogation for him to be the 
one to save his enemy’s life. Why had he not let 
some other person do it ? Miss Lethbury opined 
that it was hardly decent. And there was a general 
feeling that to love one’s enemies was somewhat 
poor-spirited, and that it would have been more 
natural and reasonable if Gideon had let Captain 
Hamilton alone. An act of virtue like that made 
ordinary people feel quite small. 

A week elapsed before Gideon sought his father 
again. 

“ Could you spare me for a few days ? ” he asked, 
with unusual abruptness. 

“ Spare you ? Where are you going, lad ? ” 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


269 


“ I want to go to London,” said Gideon, avoid- 
ing his father’s eye. 

J oseph Blake pondered ; then he looked up at 
his stalwart son, and noticed that his very lips were 
pale. 

“ You’ve heard — something, Gideon ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Gideon desperately — “ I 
don’t know what it means. I may be going on a 
fool’s errand ; but, for God’s sake, don’t hinder me, 
father ! I must go.” 

“ You wouldn’t — you wouldn’t — be for bringing 
her back — here, Gideon ? ” 

“ I should have to find her first. I can’t tell. 
But I must go to London.” 

“ Can’t you tell me what you have heard, boy ? ” 

“No, I can’t; I don’t understand it myself. 
But I must satisfy my own mind. I’ve been put- 
ting it off for days ; I did not know whether I could 
do any good. But it seems to me that that’s not 
my business ; it’s my duty to go.” 

“ Then go, lad,” said Joseph Blake kindly ; “ I 
won’t-hinder thee. But I doubt whether you can 
do any good.” 

“ Say 4 God bless you,’ father, before I go.” 

18 


270 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“ God bless you, my lad ! Do you want to go 
at once ? ” 

“ To-night,” said Gideon, with trembling lips. 

But his eyes were steady and clear. 

The old man blessed him again, and said good- 
bye. 

Then Gideon went home and put his things 
together. He was going to catch the train that had 
borne him to London once before, but with what a 
different purpose in his heart! For then he had 
been full of bitterness, and strong in his desire of 
vengeance ; but now love and compassion ruled the 
day. And it seemed to him that he had done wrong 
in not going earlier to look for Emmy ; but he had 
never thought of seeking her in the flinty -hearted 
London streets. 

The little house by the river looked very gloomy 
and desolate as he turned the key in the front-door 
and put it in his pocket, for he was to leave it with 
Keziah, who lived in a house which he would pass 
on his way to the station. It always had a desolate 
look in autumn, when the rains had been coming 
down, and the river had overflowed its banks and 
stood level with the garden-beds. The floods had 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


271 


been out again, Gideon remembered, and be won- 
dered for a moment whether his house were safe. 
His father had spoken to him about the foundations 
not long before. “ I suppose it will last my day,” 
he said to himself, glancing back at it with a sort of 
sad affection as he closed the garden-gate. He had 
an impression that his “ day ” was not likely to be 
long. Hot that he thought of death for himself, but 
he sometimes contemplated leaving Casterby when 
his father was no longer living. It sometimes 
seemed to him that there was a larger life into 
which he might enter in another place. He might 
work as well as pray. But if he could only find 
Emmy first ! . . . 


XI. 


“ Love seeketh not itself to please, 

Nor for itself hath any care.” 

Gideon reached London before dawn, and em- 
ployed bis leisure time in finding a room for him- 
self, and in breakfasting. After breakfast he sallied 
forth to Coleman Street, Westminster, although he 
had a very dim idea as to the reason of his expedi- 
tion. He had concluded in his own mind that Miss 
Yiolet Leslie was one of Emmy’s friends, and that 
she had information to give him. He was sur- 
prised, however, to find the house a squalid-looking 
place, with “ Apartments to Let ” in the window. 
A red-faced, hare-armed landlady, in a gown that 
did not meet across her chest, answered his question 
with a hurst of abuse. 

“Yes, I know Miss Yi’let; who doesn’t?” she 
said, when her wrath had calmed down a little. “ A 
nice lot she is, and does credit to her friends ! Ho, 

272 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


273 


she ainH here, and I wouldn’t ’aye her in my ’ouse 
again for huntold gold.” 

“Can you tell me where she is gone, then?” 
said Gideon entreatingly. 

“ hTo, I can’t. You’d better look for her along 
Piccadilly ; you’ll find her there most likely,” said 
the woman with an insulting laugh. 

“ Piccadilly ? ” said Gideon hesitatingly. 

“You silly lout! don’t you know where Picca- 
dilly is ? You’ll soon find out. Go there to-night 
and look ; you’re pretty sure to see Miss Yi’let 
Leslie, as she calls herself — no more Miss Yi’let 
Leslie than I am.” 

“ Do you know a Mrs. Blake ? ” said Gideon, 
not yet discouraged. “I think she is, perhaps, a 
friend of Miss Leslie’s.” 

“ You’re from the country, I take it. You don’t 
know much abomt London, young man, that’s plain. 
Is Miss Leslie a friend of yourn ? ” 

“ I never saw her in my life. But Mrs. 
Blake ” 

“ I don’t know no Mrs. Blakes. But Yi’let 
Leslie— anybody ’ll p’int her out to you if you go 
to Piccadilly Circus at ten or eleven o’clock to- 


274 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


night. All the girls knows her, an’ the p’leecemen, 
too. Ask a p’leeceman, young man ; he’ll tell you 
where Yi’let Leslie’s to he found.” 

And she shut the door in his face. 

Gideon knew very little of the world. But he 
knew evil from good, and had seen something of 
both, even in a country town. In Casterby, how- 
ever, evil did not flaunt itself on the pavements, 
and smile at the passers-by from under the flaring 
lamps. 

He found himself at Piccadilly Circus between 
ten and eleven o’clock, watching the crowded pave- 
ments with troubled, wondering eyes. Girls with 
bold eyes and painted faces laughed at him over 
their shoulders, and made jokes at his expense ; he 
was so manifestly unaccustomed to the scene that 
he was fair game. Some of them spoke to him, or 
passed him with a flick of their floating boas, a 
whisk of their silken and embroidered skirts. 

“You poor child,” said Gideon to one of them, 
who was a little thing not more than sixteen or 
seventeen years old, “ go home, for God’s sake, and 
ask Him to deliver you from evil ! ” 

He got a jeer and a laugh for his pains, and 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. ' 


275 


for some little time afterwards lie heard his own 
words passed with loud, half-drunken laughter 
from mouth to mouth, as if they were the most 
amusing thing he could have said. 

“ Have I come down into hell ? ” asked Gideon 
of himself. 

The streets were as light as day ; the restaurants 
were crowded ; men in evening dress were coming 
out of the theatres, and walking slowly along the 
pavement. The road was crowded with cabs and 
omnibuses; the cries of the omnibus conductors 
mingled with the loud laughter of the girls and 
women who walked arm-in-arm round the corners, 
hurrying a little lest they should be hustled by the 
police. Others stood motionless in corners, as if 
half courting, half dreading observation. JSTow and 
then a respectable woman hastened anxiously, with 
eyes set straight before her, lest she should see 
something she did not want to see, towards cab or 
omnibus, or a couple of Salvation Army lasses came 
past with War Crys in their hands. Once or twice 
a “Christian worker” — Gideon instinctively rec- 
ognised the type — tried to speak to a loiterer, who 
generally responded by a broad smile and a mean- 


276 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


ingless nod of the much-curled and befeathered 
head. Gideon felt himself lost, alone, in the midst 
of a crowd of human beings whose bodies alone 
were living, whose souls were dead. 

A big policeman had been keeping his eye upon 
him for some time, and now accosted him with 
asperity. 

“ Move on, young man,” he said, “ if you’re not 
waiting for a omnibus ; move on, please.” 

Gideon turned and looked at him. The man 
had a sensible, honest face. 

“Look here,” said Gideon; “I was told you 
would know a — a lady called Miss Yiolet Leslie, 
and if I asked you, you would point her out 
to me.” 

“ Don’t know any such person,” said the police- 
man stolidly. 

“ I don’t know her either,” said Gideon, “ but 
I’ve lost my wife, and I believe Miss Leslie can tell 
me where she is.” 

Policeman X. cast a sharp glance at Gideon’s 
face, and his stern brow relaxed a little. 

“ I think I know the party you mean,” he said 
cautiously, “ and she’s generally out o’ the theatre 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


277 


by this time. If you stand ’ere for a minute or two 
I might be able to tell you which she was. She’s 
one of the worst o’ the lot. I wouldn’t ’ave any- 
think to do with her, if I was you. You’re from 
the country, ain’t you ? ” 

“Yes,” said Gideon, wondering how people 
found it out. 

“ So I thought from the cut of you. Now, you 
take my advice, and go ’ome again. This ain’t the 
plice for you.” 

“ It’s as much my place as that of most of the 
human beings I see,” said Gideon, with a dreary smile. 

The policeman looked at him solemnly. He did 
not understand. 

“You’ve never been ’ere before, have you? 
Well, the less you see of it, the better.” He was 
quite paternal to Gideon. “As for Miss Leslie, 
she’s a chorus lady, you know ; the less you see of 
her , the better, too.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

“She’s what they call good-looking,” said the 
man critically, “ and I don’t say that she drinks as 
much as some of ’em. There she goes ! See her ? 
The party in the white hat.” 


278 


OUtf OF DUE SEASON. 


Gideon looked. “ The party in the white hat ” 
was a very pretty girl, who came laughing up the 
street with a number of companions, mostly young 
men. She was very fashionably and beautifully 
dressed; her cheeks were rouged, and her golden 
hair was elaborately curled ahnost to her darkened 
eyebrows. But her eyes, those blue, still innocent- 
looking, appealing eyes ! They were Emmy’s eyes. 

“There she is,” said the policeman, thinking 
from Gideon’s silence that he had not heard. 
“ That’s Miss Yiolet Leslie, of the Comedy ” 

“ Nay, you’re wrong,” said Gideon, in deep, in- 
dignant tones. “ It’s no Miss Leslie — it’s my wife.” 

And he plunged forward, regardless of conse- 
quences, facing the girl as she came laughing and 
singing up the street. 

“ Emmy ! ” he said. 

She stopped short. It could be seen that she 
turned white beneath her paint, and that a look of 
fear and shame came into her beautiful eyes. He 
held out his arms to her ; but with a shriek that 
was half of laughter, half of fear, she put her hands 
up to her face and fled, as if for dear life, across the 
crowded road. Gideon tried to follow her, but was 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


279 


pulled back by bis friend the policeman, otherwise 
he would have been somewhat roughly handled by 
the men and women who called themselves Emmy’s 
friends. 

“ Lord love yer ! what was you thinking of to 
do a thing like that ? ” said the policeman. “ You’d 
have been run over in another minute, and set 
upon by those young chaps as soon as you got into 
a quiet street. What was you saying — that you 
knew her ? ” 

“ I said that she was — my wife,” said Gideon, 
gasping for breath. 

“Once, maybe,” said the policeman cynically. 
“ I’d not call her my wife now, if I was you. You 
go back to the country and leave Miss Leslie to 
take care of herself. She’s on the boards, and 
doing fairly well ; but she’s as bad as they makes 
’em, so I’m told.” 

“I must see her again. Where shall I find 
her?” Gideon said, not heeding the admoni- 
tion. 

“ She won’t come ’ere again for a bit ; or, if she 
does, she’ll maybe ask me about you. Shall I take 
your address ? Or you might leave a note for her 


280 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


at the box-office of the Comedy. Then she can 
write to you if she likes.” 

Gideon thanked his adviser, and, in spite of his 
warnings, crossed the road and sought the turning 
which he fancied Emmy might have taken pre- 
viously. But he saw nothing more of her. Too 
much excited to go home to bed, he roamed the 
streets for hours, seeing the signs of revelry die 
away, to be succeeded by the stillness of night and 
the desolation of the dawn. He thought of that 
other night, part of which he had spent so miserably 
upon the Embankment and Blackfriars Bridge. It 
was hardly more wretched, more hopeless, than was 
this. 

He could not think; he could not even pray. 
The old yearning for Emmy’s love, long suppressed, 
long ignored, had come back to him, mingled with 
the pain of his new knowledge. What could he do 
to save her ? Perhaps she would refuse to see him, 
to speak to him, and what then could be done? 
But he would never leave her ; he would haunt her 
steps, night and day, until she promised to come 
home again. 

But she was not quite so obdurate as she had 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


281 


seemed. He wrote liis note to her, imploring her 
to grant him an interview ; and in return he got a 
line written in the flowing, rather illegible hand- 
writing that he knew so well: “You may come 
to see me if you like. Ask for Miss Leslie.” Then 
followed the address — a house in a little slum lead- 
ing out of Regent Street — and, by way of signature, 
a single initial : “ E.” 

He started off for the house as soon as he 
received the note, without the slightest notion that 
he might not be welcome at eleven o’clock in the 
morning. He was kept waiting in a dirty passage, 
where the paper was peeling ofl the walls in un- 
healthy-looking patches, for some minutes; and 
then requested by a grimy little servant-girl to 
walk up to the second floor, as Miss Leslie would 
be there directly. 

Gideon went upstairs. It was a foggy day, 
and the house smelt close, although the air outside 
was raw and cold. At the top of the second flight 
of stairs he saw an open door, and concluded that 
he was to enter. It was a sitting-room, shabbily 
furnished, but adorned with cheap Japanese fans, 
and art muslin which had grown filthy to the eye 


282 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


and clammy to the touch. The remains of a meal 
partly covered one table, which was also littered 
with gloves, a dirty handkerchief or two, a brush 
and comb, and a powder-pot. On the mantelpiece 
he saw curling-tongs, and cold cream, and other ar- 
ticles of toilet ; also some photographs of theatrical- 
looking persons, and a sticky medicine-bottle, 
labelled “ The Mixture — as before.” One or two 
dresses were thrown over the chairs, and a comic 
paper lay open on the floor. 

Gideon regarded the dirt and disorder of the 
room with the feeling of one in a horrible dream. 
He had bought some flowers as he came along, with 
the faint hope that they might recall to Emmy’s 
mind the innocent pleasures of her earlier life, and 
show her also that he came not as an enemy, but a 
friend. The poor tea-roses, with their exquisite 
fragrance and bronze-green leaves, looked out of 
place in the tawdry surroundings of Emmy’s Lon- 
don room. Gideon was half sorry that he had 
brought them. He laid them on the table beside 
the powder-pot, and turned to see Emmy enter by 
the folding-doors from the room beyond. 

He saw now that she was older. There was no 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


283 


paint on her face, and there were dark shades below 
her eyes, and plainly-marked lines round her 
mouth. And there was the curious look, half bold, 
half shy, only seen on the faces of those who 
have known what it is to he ashamed. Gid- 
eon would have recognised that look if he had 
been in the habit of frequenting Piccadilly at 
midnight. 

Emmy was in a dressing-gown of pale blue, with 
a falling collar of Breton lace — not very clean — at 
her neck, and frills of the same at her pretty, 
slender wrists. She was very graceful, as she 
had always been ; and her hair was uncurled and 
hung in soft waves over her forehead, much as it 
had done in the days when Gideon had wooed and 
won her at Casterby. She was not so much changed 
after all, he thought ; only she was always laughing 
— giggling, he might have called it — as she had 
never laughed at Casterby. Perhaps the laughter 
came from nervousness. She held out one slight 
hand, and laughed when Gideon touched it. 

“You’re not much altered,” she said. There 
was an indescribable hardness and boldness in her 
tone. “ But you’re handsomer, you know. I don’t 


284 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


think I ever noticed that you were such a fine man, 
Gideon.” 

The dark face that was turned to her had a fine- 
ness which had been gained during the ordeal 
caused by her own falsity. It had been sharpened 
and refined to beauty while in hers, once so lovely, 
certain lines of weakness and sensuality had marred 
the loveliness beyond hope of recovery. Yet to 
Gideon she was as beautiful as ever. 

“ Emmy ! Why did you run away from me the 
other night ? ” he asked. 

She shrank a little. 

“ Don’t call me Emmy,” she said; “it makes 
me feel inclined to cry. Nobody calls me Emmy 
now. I’m Yiolet — Yiolet Leslie, of the Comedy. 
Won’t you come and hear me sing some night, 
Gideon ? I always had a nice voice, you know.” 

“I’m here to ask you to come back to me, 
Emmy.” 

“ What rubbish ! ” she said, laughing shrilly. 
“ As if I should ever dream of such a thing ! Be- 
sides, you don’t want me ” 

“I’ve wanted you every hour since you went 
away.” 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


285 


“ You have Jolm — your beloved John. How is 
be, by the way ? ” said Emmy, tossing up her 
chin. 

“ Emmy, don’t you know ? He died three days 
after you went away.” 

“ Oh ! I didn’t know.” 

She stopped laughing, and bit her lip. Gideon 
went on : 

“ He was asking for you all the time he was ill. 
You would make him well, he said. He ” 

“ Poor little fellow ! It gives me the blues to 
hear you talk, Gideon. You’re just the same as 
ever. I’ve had another since then,” she said, laugh- 
ing a little wildly. “ He died, poor mite ! I was 
rather glad he died. I believe he’s buried at High- 
gate Cemetery. His name was Gerald Hamilton : 
I always liked Gerald for a name.” 

The pain in Gideon’s face seemed to touch her 
for a moment. 

u Gideon, you’re an old silly ! ” she said. “ I’m 
not your wife now, and you needn’t look at me like 
that. I’m nobody’s wife, thank goodness. I’m a 
free woman now. What lovely roses! did you 

bring them for me ? Awfully nice ; I’ll wear them 
19 


286 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


at the theatre this very night, and tell everybody 
you gave them me.” 

She stopped short suddenly. There was a new 
look on Gideon’s face. She remembered it in 
anger ; she did not remember it in this transfigura- 
tion of pity and of love. 

“ Emmy,” said the deep, gentle voice, “ you are 
my wife still. My dear, I have not forgotten. As 
long as I live I shall never let you go. In the 
sight of God we shall always be man and wife. 
And I love you, dear — I love you as my own soul. 
Emmy, cannot you love me again and come back 
to me ? ” 

She was impressionable, easily swayed, and the 
tears started to her eyes as she listened to him. 
But she answered impatiently : 

“Of course I can’t, Gideon. It’s an impos- 
sibility.” 

“ Nothing is impossible, Emmy.” 

“ Nonsense ! It would never do. What would 
your people say ? ” 

“They should not have the chance of saying 
anything. We need not live at Casterby. I would 
do anything you liked. We might go to some new 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


287 


country where we should not be known. I would 
give my life to make you happy, if only you would 
give up this — this life of yours, Emmy, and come 
home to me.” 

“ So easy ! ” she said, with another little toss. 
“ Fm not good, you know ; I’m bad. Everybody 
says so. A real, downright bad un. That’s what 
they call me : ‘ an old offender,’ you know. 

That’s in the police courts : I’ve been there ever so 
many times. What do you think of that ? ” 

“ Emmy, I’ll kneel to you to ask you to give it 
up and come with me. It will not be so difficult 
to be good, dear. God will help you. And the 
way you are going leads to death and despair — and 
hell. I can’t bear to think of it. Can’t you leave 
it — for my sake ? How could I bear to see you a 
lost, ruined creature, when you might be safe and 
happy and good ? I love you too much to bear it, 
Emmy : come back to me.” 

He knelt at her feet, and, catching her hands in 
his own, pressed them to his lips. Emmy resisted a 
moment, then burst into a passion of tears, and 
snatched her hands away. 

“ It’s not only me that loves you, Emmy,” said 


288 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


Gideon, now fairly embarked on the pleading words 
that be bad longed to utter. “ Tbe Lord, wbo sent 
me to you and helped me to find you, He loves 
you, too. He doesn’t want you to perisb . . . 
poor lamb! ... I love you, but He loves you 
more. You can’t bear to disappoint us, Emmy — 
we that have waited all this time for you to come 
back again . . . tbe lost sheep on tbe mountains 
. . . lost and found again.” 

His words were broken by sobs ; be knelt still, 
although she had withdrawn herself from his 
clasp ; and she, crying too, was keenly conscious of 
every word he uttered. Suddenly he broke forth 
into prayer — the cry of a heart for which the finite 
was too narrow, which only an Infinite Love could 
satisfy. 

“ Lord, save Thy child ! Lord, give her grace 
to come back to Thee. Thou hast loved her all 
the while, and I have loved her too. She belongs 
to us, Lord : she is Thine and she is mine. Let 
her come back to us. Let her know how much we 
love her, and what that love of ours can do for 
her, if she will. Lord, her child is in heaven with 
Thee — her children. . . . Shall she not see them 


OUT OP DUE SEASON. 


289 


again ? Thou knowest how one of them called for 
her. He is calling for her still. Send her not, O 
Lord, into the place of darkness, but bring her 
back to Thyself . . . and John . . . and me.” 

His voice failed him suddenly. He bowed his 
head, and could say no more. But as he prayed 
in silence, there came soft arms round his neck, 
and a sobbing voice at his ear : 

“I will come, Gideon . . ^ I wanted to 
come ... If you can only forgive me and love 
me still ... I will try to be good again.” 


XII. 


“ And I shall claim thee mine before High God ! ” 

The first step — the rush of love and shame and 
penitence — seemed easy enough ; what followed 
was more difficult. 

Emmy shrank hack after that first reconcilia- 
tion. She was a volatile creature, easily elated, 
easily depressed. Anyone but Gideon would have 
found her vacillations, her uncertain temper, her 
fits of waywardness and wounded vanity, unbeara- 
bly trying. But Gideon put up with everything. 

It was as if all the labour, and toil, and pain of 
his youth had gone to the production of this one 
beautiful flower of a perfect love. It was a love 
that defied anger and coldness and contempt ; that 
flourished on the very unkindness of the Beloved ; 
that wrapped the Beloved round as with a gar- 
ment, as with the very loving-kindness of God. 
It was a love that did not shrink from going down 

290 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


291 


into the gutter to seek for the precious thing that 
had been lost. And such a love, the consumma- 
tion of a life-time, the fine issue of a spirit finely 
touched, is sure to meet with its reward. 

As soon as the stress of emotion had passed by, 
Emmy began to make objections to everything 
Gideon proposed. She declared that she could not 
break her engagement at the theatre without a 
heavy forfeit. This Gideon undertook to pay. 
Then she said that she was in debt to her landlady, 
who would detain her boxes if she could not settle 
the arrears of rent. Gideon summoned the land- 
lady, and paid up every penny. Then there were 
things (which she must have) to get out of pawn. 
These Gideon sent the landlady to procure for her. 
Then she sulked and raved against her fate, and 
especially the fate that was taking her back to Cas- 
terby. But Gideon was very gentle with her, and 
after a time she melted into tears again and ac- 
knowledged herself very wicked, and begged him 
to forgive her, and declared that she would try to 
be good. She was more like a spoilt child than a 
woman, and if Gideon had not possessed a wonder- 
ful faith in that supernatural power on which he 


292 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


relied, lie would have stood aghast at the light irre- 
sponsibility of her nature, and the difficulty of 
making upon it any impression which would last 
more than half an hour. 

He dared not leave her alone ; he felt that she 
might run off and leave him, in a fit of despera- 
tion, at any moment. His only chance lay in get- 
ting her out of London as quickly as possible. 
And in one of her quieter moods, he told her his 
plans for her. 

“ I want you to come home with me just for a 
day or two,” he said. “ You need not see anybody 
unless you wish. But I should like to go and col- 
lect a few of my things, and there are some things 
of yours, and of John’s, dear, that I thought you 
might care to take. I would get my money, and 
we would start as soon as you liked for another 
country. I have often thought that I should do 
pretty well in Australia.” 

“ It wouldn’t be bad,” said Emmy encouraging- 
ly. “ Yes, I shouldn’t mind that ; but I could not 
live at Casterby.” 

“ You should not live at Casterby, dear. You 
would be happier in a place where there was more 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


293 


to see and hear. Nobody would know ns in Mel- 
bourne or Sydney ; we could begin our lives 
afresh.” 

She looked at him with eyes that had grown 
thoughtful and pathetic. 

“ Yes, nobody would know,” she repeated. “ It 
would be easier there.” 

“¥e could be happy together, Emmy.” 

“ Could we ? ” she said, with a little hysterical 
laugh. Then she came to him and put her arms 
round his neck as she stood behind his chair. 
“Who taught you to be so good, Gideon? You 
weren’t like this in the old days, you know.” 

“ Forgive me for those old days, then, dear.” 

“ Forgive you ? Forgive you ! Oh, Gideon, 
you are a saint. I don’t know what to do with you, 
you are so good. And I’ve never — never ” — begin- 
ning to weep passionately — u never asked you if you 
could forgive me” 

“ Yes, dearest, you did. And that is all over 
now.” 

But she cried, and would not easily be com- 
forted. 

It was in this softened mood that he got her at 


294 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


last to start for Casterby. He would not have 
chosen to go back if he could have thought of any 
other way of managing matters ; but he felt that he 
must see his father before leaving the country, and 
he dared not leave Emmy alone, and he knew no 
friend with whom he could leave her even for a 
day. 

As they neared Casterby — which he had ar- 
ranged to reach at nightfall — she grew scared and 
anxious, pulling down her veil and shrinking back 
into a corner of the carriage. 

“You don’t think we shall see anyone? You 
don’t think anyone will know me ? ” she asked her 
husband. 

He sat beside her, holding her cold hand in his 
own, and trying to console and encourage her by 
every means in his power. He had telegraphed for 
a fly to meet him at the station, for he remembered 
the times when she had grumbled at the walk home 
through the sloppy streets. It was raining, as 
usual ; it seemed always to rain at Casterby. 

Emmy shivered as she saw the drops upon the 
pane. 

“I’m afraid you are very cold,” said Gideon, 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


295 


with solicitude. u Shall we go to the Hose and 
Crown instead of our own house? You would be 
more comfortable at the hotel.” 

“ No,” said Emmy ; “ I’d rather go home. 
Somebody would be sure to know me at the hotel, 
and I could not bear being looked at and talked 
about.” 

“ You would not be known, perhaps, if you kept 
your veil down,” said Gideon, a little hesitatingly. 

“ No, I want to go home. I’ve a sort of idea 
that I should like to see the house again — and 
John’s things,” she said, with a touch of shyness 
and sadness which gave a new reality to her words. 
“You don’t mind taking me there, Gideon, do 
you ? ” 

“ I was only afraid it would be desolate for you, 
dear. Let us go home, then,” said Gideon, quietly. 

He had telegraphed to Keziah to put the place 
in order for his home-coming, but not to stay in the 
house. 

p Emmy half repented her choice when the fly set 
them down at the head of the dark lane leading to 
the little house by the river. The rain fell at inter- 
vals, and the wind was wild and cold. 


296 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


In tlie passing light which came from a glimpse 
of the moon when the clouds broke now and then, 
she could see that the fields were under water, and 
that the river looked wide and high. 

The flyman gave Gideon a warning as he was 
paid. 

“ Floods is out again,” he said. “ They say them 
houses down theer bean’t very safe.” 

“ Oh they’re all right,” said Gideon cheerfully. 

He had no fear for himself, and he did not want 
to frighten Emmy. If matters looked bad they 
could easily go to the Hose and Crown after all. 
He gave her his arm as they walked down the lane. 
He could hear the hysteric catch in her breath as 
he pushed open the little creaking gate. The path 
was very wet to their feet; in fact the garden 
seemed half under water, and there were pools at 
the very door of the house. 

But indoors all was fight and cheerfulness. In 
obedience to Gideon’s orders by telegraph, Keziah 
had wonderingly lighted fires in the chief rooms 
of the house, and left lamps burning, and an ample 
meal set out on the kitchen table. Gideon’s instinct 
told him that the kitchen, with its shining brass and 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


297 


tin, its red-brick floor and high black mantelpiece, 
was the most home-like room in the house. Not 
yet could he bear to sit in the green rep parlour, 
where he had watched beside John’s dying bed and 
wept over John’s little coffin before it was taken 
from his sight. He put his wife in the cushioned 
rocking-chair, which had once belonged to TJncle 
Obed, and himself took off her boots and her cloak, 
waiting upon her with a gentleness, an assiduity, 
which startled Emmy into quietude. 

Indeed, she was very quiet. The atmosphere of 
the old house, the sight of familiar objects, seemed 
to subdue her. She did not laugh any more, but 
looked at Gideon wistfully as he moved about the 
room. 

“ Where’s Uncle Obed ? ” she asked suddenly. 

“ He is dead, Emmy.” 

She shivered again. 

“ I declare I’m afraid to ask after anybody. Is 
your father ” 

“ He’s all right. He is rather infirm, that is all. 
I don’t think anyone else has died in our families — 
only those, you know.” 

“ Mother ” 


298 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“ Slie lives just where she did, and the children 
are all growing up.” 

“ Do they — do they know — about me ? ” 

He came to her side and laid his hand on her 
shoulder ; his silence told her that they knew. 

“ It’s very hard,” said Emmy, weeping. “ Every- 
one thinks so badly of a woman — like me, and I’m 
sure I’m not worse than other people. I suppose 
mother wouldn’t like me even to go near the house, 
nor speak to Mary and Jenny if I met them in the 
street ? ” 

Again Gideon was silent for a little while, hardly 
knowing what to say. 

“ My dear,” he said at length, “ you know there 
is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one 
sinner that repenteth ” 

“ I know I’m a sinner ; I’ve been told so often 
enough,” said Emmy. “But whether I repent or 
not ” 

She twisted her handkerchief nervously between 
her fingers, and looked into the fire. 

“We can talk afterwards,” said Gideon, think- 
ing it better to change the subject. “Come and 
eat something ; I’ve made the coffee, and here’s 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


299 


cold meat and cakes and things. Or would you 
rather have tea ? ” 

“ I think I’d rather have brandy,” said Emmy, 
with a reckless laugh. “ Tea ? — wish-wash ! Well, 
give me the coffee, if you’ve nothing else in the 
house. I suppose you don’t drink whisky now as 
you used to do ? ” 

“ The coffee is better for you,” said her husband 
adroitly. “ Drink it, and eat something, then you’ll 
feel better.” 

She did as he suggested, but her appetite soon 
failed her. She sat with her hands in her lap, 
listening to the wind with a far-away look in her 
blue eyes. 

“ How the wind howls ! ” she said at length. 
“Well, it’s more comfortable here than walking the 
streets in London, any way. I’ve stopped out all 
night sometimes — hadn’t anywhere to go, you know. 
I used to think of you, safe and warm here with 
Jacky. I did not know that he was gone, of course. 
I didn’t think of you being all alone.” She paused 
a little and reflected. “IJncle Obed gone, too! 
Have you been living here all the time by your- 
self ? ” 


300 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“Yes. Since Uncle Obed died — three years 
ago.” 

“And yon never thought of getting a divorce 
and marrying again? Yon could have done, you 
know.” 

“ Hot as long as I loved you, my dear.” 

Emmy laughed, with a sob in her throat. 

“ I never saw anyone like you,” she said. “ I’d 
no idea you cared for me like that. I never be- 
lieved in a man being faithful and true. Gideon, it 
makes everything much worse that you’ve loved me 
all this time.” 

“ Why worse, dear ? ” 

“ It makes me seem worse to myself. I often 
got tired of it all, and wished myself back in 
Casterby. But I thought you’d turn me from your 
door if I came back.” 

“ ISTever, Emmy, never ! So long as our Lord 
has not turned me away, how could I think of shut- 
ting you out of my heart ? ” 

“ I don’t understand all that,” she said. Then 
her face softened and her eyes filled. “ I only 
understand how you’ve cared for me ; and I’ve only 
you left now.” 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


301 


“ The rest will come in time,” said Gideon pa- 
tiently. It was something that Emmy should under- 
stand his love. 

Presently she said something about going up- 
stairs, and he took her to the room which she had 
occupied in the old days, where John’s crib still 
stood between the white-curtained bed and the wall. 
Keziah had understood that a visitor was coming, 
and she had left a fire burning, and aired the white 
sheets that smelt of lavender, and drawn the chintz 
curtains close over the window. The room looked 
almost as dainty as when Emmy had first went 
away. Gideon left her there alone. 

“ It’s quite pretty,” said Emmy to herself, look- 
ing round. “ It’s all just the same; — just the same. 
He hasn’t changed a thing. Nothing’s changed, 
except — except me. And John has gone — oh, it 
would be much easier if John were here ! ” 

Eor the loneliness and silence of the place 
tried her nerves. She was used to the noise and 
bustle and glare — she called it “ life ” — of the Lon- 
don streets. What could she do with Gideon, here, 
alone ? Her heart sank. And yet — yet — she 

wanted to be “ good,” as she phrased it. If only 
20 


302 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


she could stand the dulness of life alone with 
him ! 

Away from her, Gideon had gone into that poor, 
plain little room with the truckle-bed and single 
wooden chair, which he had used since his return 
from London after John’s death. He looked round 
it with the feeling of a monk on some enforced re- 
nunciation, some inevitable return to the ordinary 
world. The rudely-carved crucifix, made by his 
own hands, hung on the wall ; upon the floor be- 
neath it lay a knotted scourge. Gideon picked it 
up and put it out of sight. He knew that this 
phase of his experience was over. There would be 
no time now for midnight vigils and scourgings and 
penitential tears. He would have other work to do. 
His penance would consist in the laborious attempt 
to teach and turn another soul to good. It was a 
boon, a blessing, an answer to his prayers ; but he 
dimly felt that it would be a penance, too. 

He knelt and said a prayer for Emmy — hardly 
for himself, save in an incidental way. Emmy’s 
state absorbed him far more than his own. He 
would willingly have bartered his hopes of eternal 
happiness for an assurance of hers, if such an ex- 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


303 


change had been possible. It seemed to him as 
though he had acquired new rights over her soul, as 
if he could now compel her to be “ good.” 

After a time he knocked at Emmy’s door. He 
was afraid of leaving her too long alone. She 
looked up from an open wardrobe at which she was 
standing as he entered, and he saw what she held 
in her hand. It was a pair of John’s shoes ; John’s 
toys were ranged upon the shelf before her, and his 
little clothes were piled in rows in an open drawer. 
She turned round with tears upon her face. Gide- 
on came up to her, and put his arm round her slen- 
der waist. 

“ Ah, thank God that you are home again ! ” he 
said passionately. 

She laid the shoes down, and turned to him, and, 
with a quick, impetuous movement, threw herself 
upon his breast. 

“Oh,” she said, “I am sorry; I do repent, 
Gideon, I do — but only because you love me. I 
should never have come back, if it had not been 
you that sought me out. But I’m not worth it — 
not worth your love — not worth the love of any- 
body in the world ! ” 


304 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


She sank down before him, her head touching 
the ground, her hands clinging to his feet, sobbing, 
broken, exhausted. The memorials of her child 
had brought her to herself. Gideon tried to raise 
her ; but at first she would not yield to his touch, 
but dragged herself away from him, and sobbed 
with her face upon the floor. 

“ I can’t bear it that you should be so good to 
me,” she said. And after another interval : “ I 
will do anything you like. I will try to be a good 
wife to you — if you will take me back, and if I 
live; but I think — now — I could die — die of my 
shame.” 

After a time he raised her up and drew her 
close to him, speaking comforting words ; and then, 
according to his simple creed and rule, he prayed 
aloud for her and for their future life. 

“ It may be hard,” he said to her later, as he 
sat by the fire, and she crouched at his jfide with 
his hand upon her neck, “ but we must bear the 
hardness for a time. We all have to pay. When 
we have sinned, it is the sin itself that punishes.” 

“ You haven’t never sinned,” she murmured, 
touching his knee with her hand. 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


305 


“ Millions of times, Emmy.” 

“ But not — not as I have,” said Emmy, with her 
fair head bowed against his knee. 

“ Oh, my dear ! ” he cried, ont of the depths of 
his passionate love, “ what does it matter which of 
us it was ? We were one flesh. When you went 
astray, it seemed to me that I went, too. I prayed 
God to let me take your punishment upon myself. 
I suffered with you, and for you, all the time.” 

“ For me ? ” 

“ I put on sackcloth ; I chastened myself with 
fasting ; I laid your guilt upon my soul. Child, if 
you had gone to hell, I must have gone too ! I felt 
that you could not die alone.” 

“ Oh, Gideon,” she said, “ you make me 
afraid ! ” 

“ Afraid of what, my dear ? You would not go 
back to the old bad life again ? ” 

“ I would die first,” she said. 

He drew a long breath. Was she not given 
back to him, body and soul, for this world and the 
next ? It was well to have lived — well to have 
wept and prayed and agonized — for this supreme 
deliverance, for the glory of this hour ! 


306 


OUT OF DUE SEASON. 


“ What is that ? ” she cried at last, lifting her 
head. 

The storm had risen to a gale ; the wind howled 
round the house, shaking it to its foundations. 
They had heard a strange noise — a crack, an 
ominous rending sound. The walls quivered be- 
fore their eyes. Gideon sprang to his feet. 

“ The house is not safe,” he said. “ The river 
must be rising. Let us go, dearest, while there is 
time.” 

They gained the head of the stairs. Then 
Gideon put his arms round his wife, and strained 
her face down upon his breast. 

“ Don’t look,” he said. “ Don’t be afraid. 
Emmy, we shall never be divided any more — thank 
God!” 

And the rain descended, and the floods came, 
and the winds blew, and beat upon that house ; and 
it fell. And great was the fall of it. For beneath 
its ruins, when daylight came, the seekers found 
Emmy and Gideon, clasped in each other’s arms. 


THE END. 




OUT OF DUE SEASON 


A MEZZOTINT 



THE MISTRESS OF QUEST, THE STORY OF A PENITENT SOUL, ETC. 



. . . “Spirits are not finely touched 
But to tine issues ”... 



NEW YORK 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

1895 




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